Stupid Penis

A perfect night to me is having a plate of General Tso's Chicken, playing an Audrey Hepburn movie, and playing euchre when I'm done eating while sipping on a nice glass of red wine.

This seems to floor some people, mostly men (dumb men obviously, but we will get to that). I think for the most part it floors men because there is no mention of the penis I obviously want to have.
I like penis, don't get me wrong, but I don't need it, and I definitely don't need it to make the perfect night.

I think this is called "maturing."

FN and I always get mad at dumb men and some of their idiosyncrasies. He and I will tell each other a story of some "guy" and how horrible he was. At the end of those stories one of us will invariably say "Stupid Penis."
To throw all people into a category based on their genitalia seems a bit harsh and I often find myself wondering if I'm just one step away from buying a cat and living alone the rest of my life.
I even do things to myself that make my self-esteem disappear, bringing me closer to “cat woman.”
Side Note: If you have a crush on someone, and they become drunk and start hitting on you, this does not mean it's a good idea to make-out with them. Especially, if you are sober. Your ego will be bruised the next day and you’ll feel like shit. About the only way your ego is going to become "unbruised" in that situation is if you can duplicate the same scenario, and run like hell from the man in question. A crush is a crush, and should be left at that, especially if you know that they aren't crushing in return.

How did this tradition of “stupid penis” get started, QSW?
I'll tell you!
I don't know.
But it is tradition…
…and because of our traditions...
Every one of us knows who he is and what God expects him to do.
And God expects me to call dumb men, “Stupid Penis.”

Yes, I made a “men” conversation turn into Fiddler on the Roof.

I’ll leave you with a “Stupid Penis” example so that you may understand its meaning:
Mr. Lust and I are on the rocks. (That is, a strong pour over ice)
RHM loves to talk. (that is, gossip)
Because of these two factors I found myself answering a text message from the long-lost GH: “What do you mean ‘WHATS UP?’”
GH: I heard you and Mr. Lust were no longer.
Me: How on earth did you hear that? Where are you now? St. Louis?
GH: I still have friends there, even if I’m in St. Louis.
Me: So, Nothing is up, What is up with you?
GH: Nothing, I am coming through that area on Tuesday and I was wondering if we could hang out.
Me: No.
GH: I don’t want anything, I just want to talk.
Me: (Right, I’ve heard that one before) Talk about what?
GH: I want to apologize about Medusa and what happened in the past.
Me: (reading, but not responding)
GH: I also want to talk about James.
Me: (fuck, just pull out all stops)
GH: (after not hearing from me for 15 minutes) Well, plan B will be in action. I’m spending the night there, and I’ll just show up at the bar you work at until you are there.
Me: Stupid Penis.