My bologna has a first name, a last name and a camera, apparently

I’ve been following the Anthony Weiner scandal with mild interest. Wait that’s not the right word — disgust. Yeah, that’s it.

There’s a brilliant e-card over at that says: Feel free to sext me once you have the finely toned pecs of a nerdy New York congressman. I love it.

I recently emptied my cache of such photos. Particularly among my married male friends over the years, I received a number of penis and pec pics. And while some folks were, uh, endowed and I can see why they were eager to share the wealth with women beyond their wives, I never really understood the pecs pics. I mean, we weren’t talking about hard bodies here (above the waist, anyway).

Men need to realize that women are not really all that turned on by men. Just like they don’t give a flying fuck about shoes, we really don’t care about their dicks. Honestly. I live my life just fine without having one nearby at all times.

I’ve stared, disappointed, at the ceiling hundreds of times while one was shoved into me while they somehow felt that this reverse whack-a-mole process was actually pleasurable. I’ve watched them finish, triumphant, while I was resigning myself to the fact that, well, yay it’s done but boo that I failed to enjoy it an eighth as much.

What kills me is how many guys out there don’t want to call you again because they’re afraid you will get attached. When really, we’re praying they don’t call again because we’d get closer to orgasm by going to a shoe sale. Fuck it — I’ve had more orgasms in shoe stores than in beds (or on tables, countertops, thrown up against walls, whatever).

I know we women in our (albeit late) childbearing years should be using our Law of Attraction techniques to attract men into our lives. But when that only seems to bring married ones who are just too enthralled with their own junk to keep it to themselves, or it brings others who are, again, enthralled with their own junk and feel the need to stick it in new places like they need to go on all the rides at damn Disney World, meh. Keep it. Really.

I heard a joke today that some guy once had a thought about the clitoris, but then he couldn’t find it again. That made me laugh. I think they know where it is (like you know there’s a slot machine somewhere in, oh, Vegas, sure), but it’s not as critically important as their naughty bits.

I feel bad for the wives of the men whose junk once littered my computer’s memory. I didn’t ask for any of that crap and while there were some impressively artistic shots, that’s where my appreciation ended. The only saving grace to having someone ramming their doo-hickey up your hoo-hah is that you don’t have to look at it.

But, I don’t know if I would share it, whether with their wives or the media or what. I like to think that everyone comes to their senses eventually. I mean, isn’t disappointing one woman for the rest of your life enough? Do you really have to repulse a bunch of others, too?

And don’t get me started on the ones who sent naughty pictures of their WIVES. That’s a blog entry for another day. But suffice it to say, Mrs. Oscar Meyer Weiner should be thanking her lucky stars that her dumbass husband was too impressed with his own junk to advertise anyone else’s.

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