Whiskey Dick: Friend or Foe?
Once upon a time men were men, and when their hands weren’t too busy smacking their wives around a man could often be found with one hand wrapped around his Sword Of Thundera and the other wrapped around a bottle of potent spirits. Brave men who drank night and day and pounded the pavement day and night… and by pavement I mean pussy. But alas, times have changed and “men” wearing skinny jeans and sipping on appletinis can routinely be found in vintage clothing stores looking for knit hats and complaining about their girlfriends beating them up. When a man used to talk about long bangs he meant multi-hour passion sessions, not his hair. When a man used to say “Grande” he meant his Blue Veined Bitch Blaster, not a cup of coffee. And when a man used to talk about his feelings he meant feeling up his secretary, not how nobody understands him.
I’m talking to you, pussy.
Modern man has many complaints, but chief among them is the dreaded Whiskey Dick, which can take a man from upright citizen to saggy vagabond in a mere matter of moments. These emo rock, hair gelled bastards can mutter, “to be great is to go on, to go on is to go far, to go far is to return” to Admiral Winky all they want but Taoist Theory won’t work on it. Whiskey Dick has no known weaknesses. However, there are many causes (First and foremost, laughter while pointing at the Womb Raider). How many whiny punks have had to tell their ladies they’ll have to wait and try the Breakfast Burrito in the morning?
Whiskey Dick, or as it’s known in infomercials, erectile dysfunction (Or as it’s known in France, a boner), is defined as not being able to achieve an erection due to an overabundance of alcohol. Under normal circumstances, when a man is sexually stimulated, his brain sends a message down the spinal cord and into the nerves of the penis (DUDE! WAKE UP!!!). The nerve endings in the Hoo Hah release chemical messengers called neurotransmitters which then signal the arteries that supply blood to the corpora cavernosa, the two spongy rods of tissue that span the length of Neil Patrick Phallus (That’s right, you have spongy rods in your Doogan Howser, M.D.). This causes the corpora cavernosa to relax and fill with blood (Unlike women, who only grow bitchier as they fill with blood).
Well, that's a stupid question. If I didn't think
it was funny I wouldn't have said it.
As they expand, the corpora cavernosa pinch off other veins that would normally drain blood from the Yogurt Slinger. As the Cervical Crusader becomes engorged with blood, it enlarges and stiffens, causing a… I believe the medical term is “raging hard on”. But too much alcohol will act as a central nervous depressant on your Fallopian Fiddler and prevent your apogee from reaching her epigee. For this article we will mainly be dealing with your inability to wake up Impregnator, Bringer of Life due to alcohol consumption (Because I don’t give a damn about your psychological problems). In a nutshell, you drank too much and you can’t get it up. But is that always such a bad thing?
Think about it. You know how you dated that bipolar girl once and thought to yourself, “Never ever in a fucking thousand million years would I do that again?” Alcohol is just like that, except they try to science it up by calling it a “biphasic” drug. This means that while it causes mild euphoria at first, eventually bad things set in. So first, let’s examine the effects of alcohol.
Effects of alcohol- The Five Stages of Inebriation
1. Mild Euphoria (BAC = 0.03-0.12%) - Note that it says, “Euphoria” not happiness. This literally means that you have a false sense of self-confidence and increased sociability. You are a better version of you and you believe it! It also shortens your attention span (More likely to not realize you’re talking to a dumb or uninteresting chick) and impairs judgment (More likely to not realize you’re talking to an ugly or overweight chick) and impairs fine muscle coordination (More likely to listen to the Black Eyed Peas). But at this point your AIDS Cannon is still firing fine.
2. Lethargy (BAC =0.09-0.25%) – Basically the same as stage 1 but worse. Sedation, impaired memory and comprehension, delayed reactions, loss of balance, blurred vision and other impaired senses. At this point a wily woman could actually convince you that you need her help just to get around or that you physically cannot make it to your domicile without her help. Remember, your brain and muscles are not functioning properly. This is when your Cobra Commander begins to sense treachery is afoot.
3. Confusion (BAC = 0.18-0.30%) - Everything from the previous two exacerbated further. One of the new effects is actually listed as, “emotional liability”. At this point, analgesia occurs. It actually begins to kill pain (So if a big girl sits on your lap you won’t notice). Dizziness and vomiting occur. You may notice your Everlasting Gob Dropper begin to be unresponsive.
4. Stupor (BAC = 0.25 – 0.40) – Severe ataxia (Loss of muscle control), lapsing in and out of consciousness (Or as I call it, time traveling), anterograde amnesia (That’s right, fucking amnesia!), vomiting to the point of possible death by asphyxia, hypoventilation (Respiratory depression… it means you can’t breathe), dehydration, decreased heart rate, and then the kicker! Your body’s first means of defense against women trying to take advantage of you, urinary incontinence. This is your Giving Tree’s last cry for help before being chopped down.
5. Coma (BAC = 0.35 – 0.50%) – Unconsciousness. Depressed reflexes. Life threatening respiratory depression. Markedly decreased heart rate. Most deaths from alcohol poisoning are around this dosage. Even your Bow Legged Swamp Donkey fears death, as rigor mortis only affects the joints and not your Pudding Pistol. Death is the battle from which no One Eyed Purple Helmeted Spartan can return.
These are the body’s natural defenses against being raped by a manatee. Your Chubby Conquistador knows that when you get to drinking it could wind up inside anything remotely moist and cylindrical. It begins to shut down in order to save you, even at the risk of death. Why? Because death before dishonor; that’s fucking why. And I know what you’re thinking, “What about if she’s super hot? A 10? A dime? A once in a lifetime lay?” Well, modern man has two advantages that the man of the past didn’t.
Viagra and cocaine.
Just be sure and seek a second opinion about your lady from the most sober person with you (Whoever is driving) before you reach into that magic bag of tricks.
In conclusion, do not fear Whiskey Dick. It’s your Sour Cream Shotgun’s way of trying to save you from making a horrible mistake. It is a thankless hero tirelessly toiling away in the shadows to save you from awkward mornings of regrets and lies. You either die a hero or you live long enough to see yourself become the villain. Whiskey Dick can do those things… because he’s not a hero. He’s whatever you need him to be. Sometimes the truth isn’t good enough. Sometimes people deserve more. Sometimes people deserve to have their faith rewarded. He knows he didn’t do anything wrong; he’s the hero this city deserves but not the one it needs right now. So we’ll curse his name, because he’s not a hero. He’s a silent guardian… a watchful protector… a dark knight.
Author’s Note- I texted a lot of my friends to get their favourite phallic euphemisms. These are the ones that I couldn’t make room for. Soap dispenser, Beaver Cleaver, Thunderstick, Dreamsicle, Semenal Spritzer, Diamond Cutter, Excreting Excalibur, Marky Mark and the Funky Bunch, Flesh Flute, McSquizzy’s Tree, Go Go Gadget Gagger, Girthy Goo Gherkin, Harry Von Schlongenstein, Incredible Bulk, Pokin Joe Frazier, Jake The One Eyed Snake, Jesus Christ Supershaft, Jell-O Jiggler, Little Johnson and the South Side Boyz, Magenta Mushroom, El Pedro, Purple Headed Pubic Punisher, Solid Snake, Squinty Blowpop, Tennessee Throatwarmer
T-Bagz is a Tennessee Squire and an alcoholic who knows more about the penis than any straight man should.