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You see, the penis, it’s so graceless, wouldn’t you agree? When it’s cold and shrivelled up, it looks like W.H. Auden in his old age; when it’s hot, it flops and dangles about in a ridiculous way; when it’s excited, it looks so pained and earnest you’d think it was going to burst into tears. And the scrotum! To think that something so vital to the survival of the species, fully responsible for 50 per cent of the ingredients–though none of the work–should hang freely from the body in a tiny, defenceless bag of skin. One whack, one bite, one paw-scratch–and it’s just the right level, too, for your average animal, a dog, a lion, a sabre-tooth tiger–and that’s it, end of story. Don’t you think it should get better protection? Behind some bone, for example, like us? What could be better than our nicely tapered entrance? It’s discreet and stylish, everything is cleverly and compactly encased in the body, with nothing hanging out within easy reach of a closing subway door, there’s a neat triangle of hair above it, like a road sign, should you lose your way–it’s perfect. The penis is just such a lousy design. It’s pre-Scandinavian. Pre-Bauhaus, even.
