The Trespassed Penis
It happened today. Anheiser-Busch finally got me. I always assumed my intellect would serve as the psychological equivalent of an SPF 50 to the constant death-ray of primtive corporate advertising. That is, until about five hours ago.
It was quite sad, really. I saw it happening in what seemed to be slow motion. Car passes Budweiser billboard, eyes look up toward said billboard, ignore all representations of beer, become fixated on 40 foot giant heaving breasts of impossibly beautiful model holding beer. The connection is established. Anheiser-Busch, not unlike Matthew Broderick circa Wargames, hacks my brain with a backdoor password left behind by the original programmer. The password, of course, being "beerpussy."
So they're in. They start downloading directly into my central nervous system. I squeeze my eyes tightly shut.... "must resist....contol-alt-delete, control-alt-delete..." Nothing. I'm frozen. My penis begins to stir like child on Christmas morning, and I'm overcome by a bizarre and inexplicable craving for tasteless swill that only resembles beer on a molecular level.
Then the really frightening part begins. My brain, released from the Anheiser-Bush subliminal tractor beam, continues to behave as if the connection is still established. All of a sudden, I'm Kevin Costner in the middle of a cornfield---only hornier and more thirsty...."if you drink it, you will cum."
Great. All I wanted to do was get home, play with my dogs, and have a nice dinner. Now I'm gonna have to stop everything and masturbate. I really don't need this. I've already got a bone to pick with HBO for their daily barrage of unsolicted soft-core whack fodder. Can't I watch two consecutive studio films without being peppered with another episode of Taxicab Confessions or Real Sex 109? Adding insult to injury, not unlike Anheiser-Busch's diluted swill, HBO's watered-down whack-fodder wouldn't even have an effect on a thirteen-year-old boy. More work for the weary. Now I actually have to get up off the couch, go to the computer and surf for some real porn. Just perfect.
The moral to the story? There is no sanctuary. Not for me. Not for you. And most certainly not for our penises.
It happened today. Anheiser-Busch finally got me. I always assumed my intellect would serve as the psychological equivalent of an SPF 50 to the constant death-ray of primtive corporate advertising. That is, until about five hours ago.
It was quite sad, really. I saw it happening in what seemed to be slow motion. Car passes Budweiser billboard, eyes look up toward said billboard, ignore all representations of beer, become fixated on 40 foot giant heaving breasts of impossibly beautiful model holding beer. The connection is established. Anheiser-Busch, not unlike Matthew Broderick circa Wargames, hacks my brain with a backdoor password left behind by the original programmer. The password, of course, being "beerpussy."
So they're in. They start downloading directly into my central nervous system. I squeeze my eyes tightly shut.... "must resist....contol-alt-delete, control-alt-delete..." Nothing. I'm frozen. My penis begins to stir like child on Christmas morning, and I'm overcome by a bizarre and inexplicable craving for tasteless swill that only resembles beer on a molecular level.
Then the really frightening part begins. My brain, released from the Anheiser-Bush subliminal tractor beam, continues to behave as if the connection is still established. All of a sudden, I'm Kevin Costner in the middle of a cornfield---only hornier and more thirsty...."if you drink it, you will cum."
Great. All I wanted to do was get home, play with my dogs, and have a nice dinner. Now I'm gonna have to stop everything and masturbate. I really don't need this. I've already got a bone to pick with HBO for their daily barrage of unsolicted soft-core whack fodder. Can't I watch two consecutive studio films without being peppered with another episode of Taxicab Confessions or Real Sex 109? Adding insult to injury, not unlike Anheiser-Busch's diluted swill, HBO's watered-down whack-fodder wouldn't even have an effect on a thirteen-year-old boy. More work for the weary. Now I actually have to get up off the couch, go to the computer and surf for some real porn. Just perfect.
The moral to the story? There is no sanctuary. Not for me. Not for you. And most certainly not for our penises.
jujubee:
Well thank god I don't have a penis. Great journal entry, I needed a laugh. 
jujubee:
How about a "detachable penis"? Or is that too trendy for ya? 