“Hey Dude, Your Junk Looks Dangerous!”

Photo Credit: steve p2008 via Compfight cc

I hate using the public restroom at the airport. Whether it’s the urinal or the stall, no amount of hand-washing is enough to satisfy my germaphobia. However, after traveling nearly every week for the past ten years, I’ve been forced to give in to nature’s whims – but only in dire emergencies. After all, I find it much easier to use the outhouse-sized restroom on the airplane than to share a public toilet with a hoard of grungy guys with bloated bladders and clogged rectums. Besides, airport restrooms are notorious for eager guys to flash their junk around for all to see. Of course, like most guys, I can’t help but look. What else can I do?  Yep, there it is. I’m so proud of you, my restroom flasher friend.

Thankfully, I’ve never been forced listen to or participate in any discussion about anyone’s junk during my restroom visits, That is, until recently. During a personal emergency at Charlotte International Airport, I overhead the following conversation at the urinal:

Guy #1 : (looking down at Guy #2, announcing to all in a surprised tone)
“Hey dude, your junk looks dangerous!”

Guy #2 : (in a smug, loud voice while zipping it up)
“Yep, I haven’t lost it yet.”

As tempting as it was, I kept aiming at my target and didn’t even flinch like most of the other guys. I was too busy evacuating the Big Gulp I downed earlier. Typically, I easily ignore these types of conversations.  After all, I was certain that he wasn’t referring to my package. Besides, it’s usually a bad thing when something is described as dangerous. However, it was quite clear that when Guy #1 used the word dangerous to describe the massive manhood of Guy #2, it was, well, a good thing. I already knew that by all accounts, I was certainly not dangerous.

While busy enjoying my unstoppable stream, I quickly realized that I was caught right in the middle of this distressing chitchat between Guy #1 and Guy #2. Naturally, I panicked. I’m a guy, I know the drill. Guys love to compare the size of their package with other men – at every opportunity. But this time around, no amount of peer pressure was going to convince me to flash around or compare my shlong to anyone, much less talk about it.

Because I was wedged between their tent-pole dialogue, I was certain that Guy #1 also took a peek at my master of ceremonies as he checked out every other guy down Urinal Lane. Even if it was accidental, he must have seen it as he gazed past my activities, discovered Mr. Big, and then announced his admiration to everyone.

Thanks, Guy #1, for making me feel awkward with your announcement. I felt like a floundering fool urinating in the middle of Times Square while thousands of people scrutinized my manhood while they so desperately searched to identify Guy #2 to shake his hand and congratulate him on his impressive level of danger.

Despite the fact I wasn’t quite finished with my business, I quickly put my junk away and bolted the scene. Scurrying out the door, I plowed over several waiting guys and dragged my rollarboard suitcase over their feet. I didn’t apologize and I didn’t look back. I was certain that as soon I left the restroom, Guy #2 would smugly turn around, flash his junk to all the amazed onlookers and smile as they applauded and waited in line for autographs.

Although I didn’t receive any so-called praise from Guy #1 about my chopper, I didn’t receive any flak either. Thankfully, the Junk Assessor’s silent scrutiny made me feel, well, average. And you know what? After thinking about it, average is just fine with me.

After all, I’m not interested in carrying around a lot of junk. I carry enough worry, stress, and anxiety from everyday life. I don’t need any more junk. Besides, if I owned dangerous junk, who knows just how reckless I would be with it?  I don’t ever want to be reckless with dangerous junk. Someone may get hurt.

Although every man carries the weight of opinions about his junk, I’m thankful that, according to the Junk Assessor, my stiffy is far from dangerous. I’m quite satisfied that it’s harmless, guarded, and reserved. I’ll gladly accept and embrace that assessment rather than dangerous any day of the week.


Dave Pacailler

After living under a rock for nearly 25 years, Dave had his eyes opened wide to the world in 2010 after marrying his crazy cat lady wife. Intrigued by controversy, culture, lifestyle, current events and history, Dave has traveled to 41 states and a handful of foreign countries. Defined as ‘metro’ by his three kids, you will often find him cleaning the house instead of working out in the yard. In his spare time, Dave likes to write sappy love songs but will be the first to admit that he can’t carry a tune. Living in Florida, Dave endures quite a comedic life with his wife, teenage stepdaughter, five cats and a dog that no one likes.

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