"It’s not what you don’t got—it’s how you don’t use it."
- Bob
I should let you know, up front, that there’s no satisfying conclusion to this insipid tale. If you enjoy intelligent pay-offs—or, even solid punchlines—you’re probably better off skipping this one. In fact, the very idea of telling it exhausts me (and, if you’ve already invented a dick-registry app, don’t take it up with me—I had nothing to do with this nonsense).
Bob and I were at the café, having the usual, as usual. This was last weekend, from my current point in the continuum. The conversation was slow and dull. When you know someone for long enough—and, if business has been slow—the act of verbal intercourse can be tiresome (even painful). Mostly, we sipped coffee and remarked about various automobiles or pedestrians that went past the window.
"I used to drive one of those," Bob might say. "It was a ‘95 and not a ‘96, with no four-wheel drive, but it was practically the same." And, I’d nod along. Or, he might say, "That chick looks like my ex-girlfriend. I wonder if she is my exgirlfriend." And, I’d nod along, for about an hour like that—talking about nothing at all. Bob said, "Instead of a dating app, we should invent a dick-registry app."
I said, "I have no interest in this topic."
Bob said, "So ladies can sort men by their dick sizes."
I said, "Oh, I get it...I just don’t care."
Finally, after breakfast had come and gone (and, after thinking long and hard about his dick-registry app), Bob said, "Do you think it’s just guys with small dicks who hate women?"
I said, as you may have said, "Pardon me?"
"The men who hate chicks. What are they called?"
"Misogynists."
"Yeah. Those guys. Do you think misogynists hate women because they have tiny cocks?"
I don’t know if there’s ever been such a study, so I said, "I don’t know if there’s ever been such a study." I didn’t feel like Googling it on my phone, at the café, and I still don’t at home, because I enjoy being a sloppy factchecker (that’s another way of saying I like talking out of my ass—life is more exciting that way...the acrobats and drunken fishermen of old called it "working without a net"). But, I did tell Bob that he should consult the Google.
"I don’t have my phone," Bob said, "because I dropped it in the toilet. Can I use yours?" And, even as these words were coming out of his mouth, I was sliding my phone off the table and into my shirt pocket. A solid "No." Bob still had egg yolk and bacon grease on his fingertips. So, he continued, "I think there’s a correlation. Small cocks equals misogyny."
Now, at least, there was something deeper than Dodge Rams to discuss.
"What about porno guys?" I asked. "Porno guys have big cocks and they appear to hate women."
"Why do you say so?" Bob said.
"I mean, I don’t know, but they certainly look like they’re hating women, at least while they’re fucking them. Slapping their faces, spitting in their eyes, stepping on their heads and cramming kitchen utensils or small engine parts up their assholes. Those guys have big cocks."
"Those guys don’t actually hate women, Bill—they’re just paid to pretend they hate women. It’s a fantasy. If you watch the chick, she’s practically begging for small engine parts up her ass. That’s the dynamic."
"Wouldn’t you also say the woman is being paid to pretend she’s enjoying it?"
"It’s a fantasy, like I said. It’s just a porno fantasy. Hate fantasy."
"For men who hate women?"
"Exactly!"
Conversations with Bob, once they begin to grow, must be tended to like a small, medicinal weed garden. You don’t want to overwater them, you must mind the temperature, watch for spiders and caterpillars, and you’ll want to be certain that you actually sowed weed, back at the start, rather than, say, ragelilacs, creeping oleander or highland stenchmoss. You want to aim for a pleasing smoke, in the end, is what I’m saying. I don’t really know jack shit about growing anything, so I probably should have gone with a different analogy. But, I think you catch my drift.
The waitress was re-filling our mugs. I was mulling over the idea of "hate fantasy." Bob was checking out the tits and ass on the waitress, who was re-filling our mugs. And, I’m not a hypocrite bastard, so you can rest assured that I was looking at those parts, too. Except I was casual and almost gentlemanly about it, whereas Bob looked like a dachshund anticipating a Beggin’ Strip.
After she’d moved along to the next booth— and, after Bob watched her go, he said, "The guys who have big dicks make porno movies because they love women, the women love them (and, loved to be loved by them), everyone involved is heavily compensated for putting on such a show—it’s all an act and the resulting product is sold to the guys who have small dicks. That is, to say, the guys who hate women."
"To clarify," I said, "the market for pornography is all incels and misogynists?"
"Yes! The guys with tiny dicks! The key to this is that having a small cock is what makes you despise chicks! Because, you don’t have enough testosterone in your small cock, so you lack the man-juice that should otherwise have caused you to adore and respect chicks!"
"I don’t think testosterone is produced in the cock."
"Didn’t Margaret Thatcher take testosterone injections?"
"I don’t know, Bob. I think plenty of women do."
"Well, I know that correlation is not necessarily causation. But, I love women and I have a big cock, so that’s what got me thinking about all this..."
This weed garden was already filling with spiders and highland stench-moss, as you can see. Also, Bob did not have a big cock. I have been naked with Bob on a couple occasions—too meandering and stupid to recount here—but, he was obviously too inebriated at those times to presently recall that I’d seen his cock. It’s middling, at best. I mean, in unadulterated, writerly honesty, my own dick is middling—at best—and, I’d still prefer to keep mine, than to trade for a Bob-cock. I really wanted to be a better man and not mention it, but...
"You do not have a big dick," I said, shaking my head.
"I have a huge dick!" Bob shot back. "It’s like a thermos, when fully inflated!"
"More like a glue-stick. Like the ones kids use in school."
"Fuck you! Ask around. Ask Janie—she’ll tell you! She couldn’t handle it all!"
"Janie is four-foot-eleven and weighs eighty pounds, so I’m sure your index finger was almost more than she could handle."
"If we weren’t in a public space, I’d show it to you! It’s like a rainbow trout!"
"It’s fine. Relax. I’m funnin’ with you. Anyway, please continue."
I have had to drop many lines to maintain my target word count, but Bob’s entire argument eventually coalesced into this: men who have small cocks are incapable of satisfying women, therefore women shun them. So, these men decide to play video games instead, becoming incels, terrorists and racists, ultimately deciding to consume pornography (in that order).
"A man’s cock is his whole identity," Bob said. "Without it, he’s nothing. It’s like a woman and her tits. If she has no tits, or if she gets cancer (or whatever), she feels less like a woman."
"And, she begins to despise men, right?"
"Maybe! Because, dudes don’t date chicks with no tits. It’s the same thing!"
"You’re saying, women’s body issues can lead to misandry."
"What?"
"Misandry."
"Fuck, I don’t know. Maybe they go out and become lesbians. I don’t have a fact sheet in front of me, Bill! I’m only saying that men with tiny cocks are the ones who hate women. Didn’t Adolf Hitler have a small dick? I think I heard he had a small dick and was missing a testicle. And, look at Adolf Hitler! Wouldn’t you say that Hitler hated women?"
"I suppose I would say that Hitler had a vast syndrome of mental issues. His was probably more of a misanthropist, a sociopath, a psychopath and a genocidal..."
"And, I think he hated women, too. Statistically. I mean, if you look at the record. He murdered three million chicks, right? And, he was hung like a filbert."
"I don’t know how much hard data exists regarding Hitler’s filbert."
"Doesn’t Donald Trump have a small cock?"
"I have no idea."
"Let’s examine the record: Charlie Chaplin? Prince Andrew? Jeffrey Epstein? Fatty Arbuckle? Albert Einstein? Milton Berle? Genghis Khan? Emperor Nero? Josef Stalin? James Bond? How big were their cocks? I’d like to know. I think I’m on to something."
"James Bond is a fictional...wait—how did Albert Einstein come into this?"
"Albert Einstein? I meant to say Harvey Weinstein. Sorry. But, I’ll wager, if you look at all the people who consume pornography, you’ll find something there. Incels and filberts. And, genocidal maniacs, too."
"I think this is all profoundly un-scientific. Don’t you have a stack of old Hustlers on the back of your toilet?"
"I’m an outlier, Bill. There’s a bell curve. Those Hustlers are antiques. They belonged to my dad. Those ones still have Chester The Molester. Classic shit. That’s art."
The waitress came back to us with more coffee. I supposed I’d had my fill, so I held my hand over my mug (the conversation was much longer than it appears here, as I mentioned). But, Bob wanted a refill and he also wanted the lady’s phone number. But, he was too shy to ask for it, despite some awkward attempts at flirtation that went nowhere. The worst bit went like this:
BOB: Doesn’t Trump have a small penis?
WAITRESS: Huh?
BOB: Donald Trump. Don’t people say he has a small penis?
WAITRESS: I dunno, dude. People say all kinds of shit. But Trump’s a big guy, right? So maybe his penis just looks smaller on him.
BOB: I never thought of that.
WAITRESS: It’s weird that you’re thinking about Trump’s dick. Just saying.
Then, she went away again and no café romance blossomed. Bob whispered to himself, "Grab ‘em by the pussy," just loud enough for me to hear, but just quiet enough to deny having said it, if pressed. He was waiting for a bro-style chuckle from me, but I chose not to give him one. Not because I’m a better man, but because it wasn’t funny.
Bob gave a throat-clearing cough, then summarized, "I think I’m saying that we could identify misogynists and incels if there was some kind of dick-registry. This could be an app on your phone, like Tinder. Like, if a chick is considering whether she should date a guy, she can check the dick registry first. And, if he’s under a certain size, she knows that he watches porn, secretly hates women, plays Fortnite and is more likely to commit random acts of violence (and terror)."
"How does the app work, exactly?" I asked.
"I don’t know. The guy enters his dick size and then there’s some kind of formula to determine how much misogyny he has."
"Couldn’t he lie about the size, the way you do?"
"Yeah, I guess. But, maybe, he also has to provide a photo of it."
"So, this is an app that feeds women halftruths and questionable dick pics?"
"Exactly!"
"I think this is precisely what the world needs."
"Yeah? Do you really?"
"I think you have some bugs to work out, obviously."
"I know. Metadata and shit, right? It’s all in the metadata. And hashtags."
"I’m going to chalk this entire conversation up to you being hungover and maybe still a bit drunk," I said. "Your ideas are stupid, your assumptions are stupid and your science is stupid. More than that, the dick-registry app is the stupidest idea you’ve had in a decade."
"You may be right," Bob conceded. "If the dude’s driving a fancy car or a new Dodge Ram, the fucking chicks won’t even care what the app says."
