April hath put a spirit of youth in everything. --William Shakespeare

Yes, spring certainly is revitalizing. The sun is out but there's a chill in the air, and it makes you just want to run outside to play and come back hours later smelling of dirt. Makes you feel like a kid again. Let's all take a deep breath together. Ready?

iiiinnnnnnnnnnnnnn...and ouuuuuuuttttttt. That felt good. Do you feel good? I do. I feel great. I'm glad we took that moment together. Happy spring, you guys. Thanks for sharing that with me.

Now, what was I going to write about? Oh yeah. Let's draw some dicks.

I, myself, do not recall ever attempting to draw a penis. I'm not very artistic, although I will, on occasion, admire someone else's drawing of a penis. Am I an expert? Far from it. I'm not here to instruct, but rather to explore, analyze, and hopefully...(humble face)...inspire.

The first thing you must consider when delving into the topic of dick art is how your post title will look on your blog friends' sidebars. It's hard to believe, but there are bloggers out there who might not appreciate your artistic spirit livening up their blogrolls:

Roseann's Musings, Ramblings, Ponderings, and Thoughts

Health Care Reform? Oh, brother...

Confessions of a Loling Blogger

Teh unicorns are made of win!

Getting Snarky with God

Rest in Peace, Mr. Fluffyknickers

Photos from Heaven

Raindrops dangling from flower petals, part 7

Steam Me Up, Kid

I draw dicks and balls real good

I know, you're thinking, "That penis at the bottom really spruces up the joint! I'd be honored to promote that blog post on my sidebar!" and I would second that sentiment, and that, my friendish, is why we're both here right now. Exploding fistbump.

But, out of respect, consider hiding your dick post behind a "title beard", such as a googled quote about springtime by some dead pretentious schmo. Bonus points if it includes the word "hath".

I would be remiss if I didn't give credit to Sarah P at Naked Cupcakes, who if you aren't reading yet, you should be, because she's fucking hilarious. She sent me a lovely card in the mail recently which was the inspiration for this post. She writes:

Dear Becky,

I love dicks. I draw them all day and all night. Dicks dicks dicks. Eat em up yum. Dicks on the brain. Can't get enough. But recently, I've developed doubts about my dicks. I need your help. Tell me honestly, do my balls look right? Love, Sarah P

Sarah P, I completely understand your artistic choices with regard to balls. We are all well aware that balls don't come individually wrapped in separate little cherry-like scrotums. But what choice do we have, as artists, and as women who love our men. Sometimes, the truth hurts.

What would you have us do, men??

WHAT WOULD YOU HAVE US DO??

See what I mean? You done good, Sarah. Long live cherryballs.

But you got me to thinking, Sarah. How important are balls in penis art? I believe inclusion of balls should be examined on a case-by-case basis. For example, I came upon this chalk illustration on the playground recently:

See? No balls. But what does "Happy Birthday Giant Cock Friend" (chalk on asphalt, 2009) have that most other dick drawings don't have? Friendship. And cake. How important are balls when we have friendship and cake? That's a question for the ages, my friends.

Now that we've opened the door to various media, I realize that what I said before about not having much dick drawing experience, while true, did not take into account my expertise in the Pancake Arts.

In my experience, the best thing about pancake dicks is pretending you didn't intend to fashion the pancake in the shape of a dick at all. When my friends come to visit with their kids, I serve up my giant phallic flapjacks that are so obscenely long (thank you, 20" skillet) that half the shaft hangs off the side of the plate, syrup dribbling suggestively off the tip, and their kids go YUM!! and other appreciative words that are muffled on account of their mouths being crammed with buttery testicles, and my friends make angry faces at me and I go

Me: What? What's the problem?

Friend: You know what's the problem. Stop feeding my kids dick-shaped breakfast foods.

Me: Dick-shaped? What's wrong with you? For your information, these are elephant heads, sicko.

I'm sorry, I'm still not seeing it.

Kid 1: I love elephant pancakes!!

Kid 2: Mommy, his trunk is longer than my trunk! I want a longer trunk!

Me: Oh, you know what though? Yours is thicker. That's what counts.

Friend: I think maybe Auntie Becky needs to see a special doctor.

Kid 1: Look at me! I'm a sword swallower! *dangles wangcake above mouth*

Friend: I just died a little in my heart.

Me: Your kids sure do love elephants, huh. Where's my camera?

My point is, when considering dick art, free your mind. The age of the pen-on-spiral doodling horny virgin teen has come to an end. We are entering a renaissance of dick art, with the introduction of photoshop and paint programs. But before we look ahead, we must look back, because those who ignore history are doomed to repeat it, and I think we can all agree that human civilization has endured enough of those nubby little cherubic wangs. I'm looking at you, Baroque period. Never again.

So here we go, a look back. I've worked really hard on this. It was difficult, because as you can probably guess by now I have trouble staying focused sometimes, especially when it comes to stuff like history, but I think I did a good job. I hope it's not too cerebral. I really want you to like it. So nervous!!! Squeee!!

And now, I humbly present, my blog thesis...

The Complete World History of Dicks in Art

Part 1

Early Dick Art: Stuff in Europe

The DaVinci Choad

Quick side note:

Something I won't eat because it looks like Marilyn Manson's penis.

Oh my God, this one's even worse.

It looks like a zombie rising from the grave, boner first.

Hahaha!! Epic ham fail lol!!

Intermission:

Storm Troopers riding dogs!

Conclusion: Modern Dick Art

The Birth of Photoshop

Totally brought it full circle.

I know what you're thinking. You're thinking, why. Why write about dick art? It's vulgar and pointless, and adds nothing to the blogosphere. And maybe you're right.

I will admit, I had my doubts too. But yesterday morning, as I sat in bed thinking about whether this topic was worth the time and effort, I received a sign from God on my closet door.

Yes, that's right. It's a pregnant woman with a giant dangly cock. Now, I'm not saying this shadow is something akin to a visit from the angel Gabriel or that I am some kind of modern-day Mary chosen by God to bring forth unto you the gift of the penii, but I do happen to be a mother of dog, and I am a virgin (airways frequent flyer) so, I mean, come on.

Or I guess it could have been the pregnant naked tranny standing over by my window when I took this photo. But I like the chosen by God thing better. Let's go with that.

We're not calling it brain surgery. We're calling it semi-permanent tampon hat. Just go with it.

Me: How was your playdate, pup?

Farley: Bullshit. Seriously. That was a bullshit playdate. Don't ever take me back there.

Me: Why? You didn't have fun?

Farley: No, no fun at all. I don't even remember most of it, that's how bullshit is was.

Me: Seems like you made lots of nice friends there, though. Lots of nice ladies came to say goodbye when you left.

Farley: Yeah, that's true. I got plenty of kisses, but still. Zero playtime. That place sucks.

Me: What did you do while you were there?

Farley: You know what's weird? I don't even know. I took a nap, and then I was tired so I took another nap, and ...*sigh*... I'm sorry, I can't even focus right now because I have the WORST fucking headache. Like, splitting headache.

Me: Oh, really? That's weird.

Farley: Do I look okay? Look at me, do I look different to you? Do I look sick? Because my head is just pounding like you wouldn't believe.

Me: You look fine to me. Nothing out of the ordinary. 

Farley: You sure? Look closer. Something just feels...off. 

Me: Hmmm.

Farley: I look the same as I did when I went in there?

Me: Actually, I think you're even more handsome now.

Farley: Heh. I am pretty handsome.

Me: *covers all the mirrors*

Farley: What are you doing? 

Me: Nothing.

Been spendin' most my life, ridin' on a gangsta's motorized stair seat

I woke up in my bed last Saturday morning, shivering and wondering why my lips felt like a tempurpedic neck pillow, wearing a short black dress and one high heel. I had been dreaming about a life as a Russian acrobat, which I knew without even checking meant I had fallen asleep wearing a thong.

I limped unevenly to the bathroom, 5'7" on one side and 5'3" on the other.

High heel, bare foot...

Click, plop... click, plop... click, plop...

tall, short... svelte, dwarf... queen of the world, troll doll...

I pulled Hoodie and pj bottoms out of my pile of laundry limbo, redressed, and sat on the toilet in my thinking position--pajama pants down around ankles, chest on thighs, arms dangling, face in panties like a little head hammock. So comfy.

I remembered a marachino cherry.

There was another cherry, later. An orange slice too.

Sugar on the rim.

Lime wedge in the bottle. Like in Mexico. Damn, that gets me every time. I love Mexico.

I will drink anything if it has a cherry or some kind of fruit or accessory in/hanging off the glass. You know those plastic monkeys that hang by their tails off the rim? Done. You could fill a martini glass up with phlegm and kitty litter and hang a monkey off the glass and maybe an umbrella, and I'd be all, "Holy crap is this a party or what? This drink sure tastes like vacation!"

I remembered my drink order at dinner: "I want that foamy drink with the round thing bobbing around in it. I want to say frankenberry, but that's not right. Dingleberry? Help me out. Floaty thing."

(If you're interested, it was a CRANberry.

*smug Trebek pause*

CRAN. berry.

*taps answer cards*)

I love festivities. I'm like a 15-year old boy who ejaculates in his jeans before his girlfriend has even begun to fiddle with his zipper. I'm like him, only with fun. Or even the suggestion of fun. Those floating cranberries and plastic monkeys dry hump my brain until I ejaculate seratonin in my metaphorical jeans. Yeah, I just wrote that.

My funjaculation condition doesn't apply to just drinks though. I'm not a big drinker. Now I realize I can't keep posting about drunk bachelorette trips and lessons in how to be photographed drunk and continue to be all "Heavens above, I can't even remember the last time I consumed liquah, I wouldn't even know what to order." *coy eyes over Southern belle fan*

I sound like a hypocrite, but I'm not. I'm not a big drinker, but I'm a master celebrator, is what I am. A master 'brator. Okay, yes, I forced that. It's embarrassing. Let's move on.

It's not just the drinks. It's carnivals (Oh my God, get off the highway NOW, I see a ferris wheel I WANT A CHURRO GOGOGO!!) or elaborately decorated cakes (I want the piece with the Superman, but I also want a rose and a balloon and a corner piece, so maybe Gerrymander it around a bit when you're cutting, m'kay? I don't care if my piece looks like Tajikistan, just make it happen) or any Journey song (*air punch, air punch, air punch, scary rock n' roll face*) or Jai Ho (*delicate Bollywood turny wrists, serious multicultural face*) I just get too excited sometimes.

Yesterday I went over to visit my Nana at my mom's house, dressed in my workout clothes because really I was there to use the treadmill, not to visit Nana, but I like to pretend I'm just killing time on the treadmill until Nana wakes up, but Nana never wakes up. If she were a goldfish she'd be the kind who's been resting on the rocks at the bottom of the tank with the same delicate tendril of poop hanging from her ass for so long that you decide to flush her and all of a sudden just as you've said your goodbyes to your Nanafish laying there in the net scooper, she opens one eye and you're like WAIWAIWAIT SHE'S ALIVE and everyone feels super bad for almost flushing Nana and you never talk about it again. Man, I am KILLING with the metaphors today.

Frankly, I wouldn't know what to say to her if she did ever wake up. Maybe I could talk about our common interests, like breathing:

Me: Breathe any good air lately?

Nana: *breathe*

Me: Oh, dang girl, save some for me!

Nana: *wink* *breathe* *sleep*

Me: You crazy, Nana.

So anyway, I showed up in my workout gear at around noon and discovered a half-empty frozen margarita machine sitting in the patio from a party the night before, promptly funjaculated, removed my sports bra and running shoes and began to gather beautiful flowers with which to decorate my drink.

And you know the saying, "Where there's a half-empty margarita machine, there's leftover fish tacos," right? So true.

And you know the saying, "I'd rather drink alone for the right reasons then drink with other people for the wrong ones?" Also true. It was hard, but I think I did the right thing.

And you know the saying, "It's better to have had a few drinks by yourself on a lovely spring day and then taken a ride on Nana's motorized stair-seat and broken the motor from over-enthusiastic make-believe gangsta hydraulics than it is to have never taken a ride on Nana's motorized stair seat at all?" No? Well, write it down. Words to live by.

Seeking the answers, part 1: Open up for the choo-choo!

I've stumbled upon an Internet goldmine. At first glance, it appeared to be some kind of "Yahoo! Answers" for refined, cultured types. A site where erudite, sophisticated people come together to seek the answers to life's most meaningful questions.

Questions like, "WHAT IS A CERVIX AGEEN I CRNT BELIEVE I FORGOT LOOL"

Looling indeed, m'lady! You forgot ageen? I daresay, you'd lose your head if it weren't attached.

After thoroughly perusing this treasury of queries and responses, I feel I have come away enlightened and with a greater sense of self-awareness and inner peace. Allow me to share with you some of the finer points of this site...

One inquisitive young woman wonders:

"How to stop queefing?"

and a young gentleman comes to her aid with a prompt reply:

"Making a girl queef, to a guy, is just a sign that you're really hiding it up good. If you've never made a girl queef, you're not doing it right. Also, the more aroused a girl gets, the more predictable she is to queef, so it's only a bad point if you don't know what it is."

If you've never made a girl queef, you're not doing it right. Are you taking notes, men?

Another young woman wonders:

"What chemicals could be put within panties to tighten up loose flaps?"

and receives her answer: "Aluminum."

Aluminum! Who knew! There is no reason to ever visit a doctor again! What use is medicine and science when we've got all the answers we need right here at this virtual oracle of sound advice? Get lost, physicians, we've got it covered!

Another woman is desperate for help:

"God, i need some good comebacks for those boobless attacks.? people r constantly teasing me and my friend about being flatcheasted (she's more flat that me so she get's tham more often. this is 4 her. well...sorta lol, me 2) I don;t kknow weather to laugh or be angry or... idk. COMEBACKS?"

Well, young lady, you have come to the right place. Let's see what cutting witticisms your fellow scholars have devised for your retorts.

"like, at lease my boobs arent so big that I can;t see my toes!" 

Zing!

"do you need a life jacket when you have one attached?" 

Oooh, count it!

"who needs a car with air bags?" 

Absolutely nobody, that's who.

"when you run do you smack yourself in the face?" 

Lool!

"at least i can find bathing suits in my size" 

Up top, girlfriend!

"less fun on top equals more fun on the bottom" 

It's true, do the math!

"at least they dont flat in the wind when i run" 

No flatting in the wind for you!

"If its a guy, just say, they are probably bigger than your dick!" 

Um...*confused face*...yes.

"At least i wont have back pains from those two tvs on your chest" 

TVs! How creative! Televisions are indeed large and bulky, like breasts, it's true.

So clever! I can't just stand back as a participant. I must step in and humbly propose my submissions for boobless comebacks:

"I'm rubber you're glue, your TV breasts flat in the wind like big floppy dicks."

Oh, heavens. This is harder than it looks. How about:

"Your large breasts are garbage breasts!"

Well, lesson learned. Leave the advice-giving to the experts.

Lastly, it appears even the most refined intellectuals seek sexual advice from time to time. It's quite possible they're more like us than we realize:

"Is it bleak to put a toy up your Virgina?"

"Depends, probably not if the toy is a train set or something big with a lot of moving metal parts."

Are you in need of some good advice? Start here: Go, learn, grow.