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In the morning, the second hobbit askes the first, "How did it go?" The first one answers. "It was embarrassing. I simply couldn't do it."
The second hobbit shook his head. "Manhood problems, eh?"
"No. I couldnt get on the bed!"
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My genitals are so sweetly intoxicating, I was able to convince Cornel West and Camille Paglia to violently disrobe and vigorously copulate with me in a Chablis-fueled, mind-bending threesome that made the seraphim in paradise blush with a mixture of shame and desire!
My genitals are so leviathan that Ahab himself, if he were rendered a non-fictional creature, would surely stand upon his masts crows nest and lob mighty harpoons at me!
If the teaming masses were to behold my juggernaut-like genitals, surely Marx's concept of the End of History would be nigh.
My genitals are of such behemoth proportions, it is to the world of genitalia what Noam Chomsky is to the study of global activism!
My genitals are so mammoth in size, that if inches were words, my member could fill every page of one of Ayn Rand's epic Objectivist tomes!
A fine 1997 Chateau-La Cardonne Bordeaux would go well with my robust and flavorful genitals, even after the third helping!
My genitals are so bursting with sexual magnetism, I could single-handedly seduce and defile the entire lesbian population of Sarah Lawrence University!
My genitals bloat with such passionate force, that upon arousal, I barely have enough epidermis to purse my lips so that I may recite Shelley's immortal poem "Ozymandias"!
If Philip Glass wrote an ambient opera in honor of my genitals, the title of the epic collection of random notes and sounds would be "Phantasmagoric Ode To Big Dong Number Five."!
Hemingway's lost book about my genitals began thusly: "His organ was big."
My virility is so profoundly cosmic, that in the event that every human male were to cease to be, my limitless supplies of genetically super-human semen could impregnate the remaining female population, thus siring a perfect race of confident, and impressively endowed men!
Tired Freudian references aside - your mother played my mighty skin flute like a surf crowned sea nymph trying to rouse Poseidon from his watery slumber!
Kurt Anderson secretly admires the cultural relevancy of my genitals, which have supplied artists and writers alike the inspiration needed to create great American works, and this admiration turned to sour envy when he ignored my zippered muse and wrote that appalling "Turn of the Century" that many have mistakenly referred to as a "novel"!
So colossal are my genitals, that they compelled Stephen Hawking to theorize that my sexual gravity is such that a tablespoon of it would weigh more than an entire LA club full of amorous, cocaine-addled, Prada-clad Casanovas!
My genitals are comparable to Harvard University's endowment - both are the largest of their kind, both are institutions that demand the respect of academics and undergraduate trollops, and both cannot be seen or used by anyone of low birth or intelligence, unless they work very hard to prove they are worthy.
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For starters, the vast majority of men don't even think about selecting gifts until Christmas Eve. It's as if they are all frozen in some kind of Ebenezerian Time Warp until 3 p.m. on Dec. 24th, when they - with amazing calm - call other errant men and plan for a last-minute shopping spree.
Once at the mall, they always seem surprised to find only Ronco products, socket wrench sets, and mood rings left on the shelves. (You might think this would send them into a fit of panic and guilt, but my husband tells me it's an enormous relief because it lessens the 11th hour decision-making burden.) On this count alone, I'm convinced Santa is a woman. Surely, if he were a man, everyone in the universe would wake up Christmas morning to find a rotating musical Chia Pet under the tree, still in the bag.
Another problem for a he-Santa would be getting there. First of all, there would be no reindeer because they would all be dead, gutted and strapped on to the rear bumper of the sleigh amid wide-eyed, desperate claims that buck season had been extended. Blitzen's rack would already be on the way to the taxidermist.
Even if the male Santa DID have reindeer, he'd still have transportation problems because he would inevitably get lost up there in the snow and clouds and then refuse to stop and ask for directions. Add to this the fact that there would be unavoidable delays in the chimney, where the Bob Vila-like Santa would stop to inspect and repoint bricks in the flue. He would also need to check for carbon monoxide fumes in every gas fireplace, and get under every Christmas tree that is crooked to straighten it to a perfectly upright 90-degree angle.
Other reasons why Santa can't possibly be a man:
- Men can't pack a bag.
- Men would rather be dead than caught wearing red velvet.
- Men would feel their masculinity is threatened...having to be seen with all those elves.
- Men don't answer their mail.
- Men would refuse to allow their physique to be described even in jest as anything remotely resembling a "bowlful of jelly."
- Men aren't interested in stockings unless somebody's wearing them.
- Having to do the "Ho Ho Ho" thing would seriously inhibit their ability to pick up women.
- Finally, being responsible for Christmas would require a commitment.
I can buy the fact that other mythical holiday characters are men......... - Father Time shows up once a year unshaven and looking ominous. Definite guy. - Cupid flies around carrying weapons. - Uncle Sam is a politician who likes to point fingers.
Any one of these individuals could pass the testosterone screening test. But not St. Nick. Not a chance. As long as we have each other, good will, peace on earth, faith and Nat King Cole's version of "The Christmas Song," it probably makes little difference what gender Santa is.
I just wish she'd quit dressing like a guy!!!
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