I'm mad. I'm damn mad. Have been for a very long time, close to forty years and I'm just sick and tired of having to be quiet, expected to just hang here waiting to be handled or scratched. What kind of life is that? Tell me.

You're god damned right I'm pissed. (And yes, I know what I just said is hi-la-ri-ous coming from a penis, but screw you.)

What do I have to be angry about? Are you even interested? Have you even pondered the question? Or are you just sitting there at your computer thinking: "A penis can't talk."? We'll I'm here to tell you I can talk and I can fucking type too. Just because it ain't easy, doesn't mean it can't happen. Though it is a motherfucker to hold down that shift key.

Why am I so angry? Hell, you'd be angry too if you knew that your whole life was going to be spent living next to a pair of sweaty balls and an asshole. But that's not why I'm mad today. I'm mad at the guy I'm attached too, yeah that punk ass little bitch.

Now, I got a list of things to complain about with this guy. If I could type any faster, I'd be glad to share it all with you, but I can only type for so long. Chafing is a motherfucker.

What am I mad about today? It's all about the chones.

Now, considering how important he claims I am to him, you'd expect him to show a little appreciation. I'm not expecting a box of chocolates. I may have a mouth but I can't do nothing with chocolates but make a mess. But the least I should expect is to be bundled in some decent, clean chones. It is that too much to ask?

What does he wear now, but some ratty ass chones that barely hang on his flat ass. They've got holes in them too. You'd think Mothra's little cousin had gone to town. If that wasn't bad enough they're permanently stained. I won't tell with you with what as I am partly responsible for that, but just let me say that after a time there is only so much laundry detergent and bleach can do.

Now, before you think that I'm completely ungrateful, let me say that I'm grateful that he prefers boxer briefs. That tighty- whitey shit don't play. The things are way too tight and on those occassions when my head slips through that gap in the front, I feel like I'm being choked. So, boxer briefs? Good move. They're comfortable and give me the space to breathe. I'm may not have seen the sun in years, but I do appreciate some fresh air every once in a while.

But these briefs he's got now are way too baggy. He lost a bunch of weight which was a good thing. He lost some of that gut so he now has a better view of "moi". (Yeah, I speak a little french. Any decent phallus should be well versed in the language of love.) The weight loss was great, but he never went out and bought a smaller set of chones.

So that shit that's already downright nasty to start with, just floats around me, provides no support and are just downright wrong. And to add insult to injury, the little bitch will wear them for three days straight before he finally throws them in the hamper. I've seen him smell the shit, to check whether he can stretch another day out of them.

Now, that's just nasty.

Now think how bad it is for me to have to brush up against that shit for most of the day.

So, yeah, I'm mad. I'm furious, but I've got to stop typing. I've been hitting the keys so hard, I'm starting to bruise.