Eli Evans

Stickball Promiscuous and the Matrimonial Miscommunication

Stickball Promiscuous, the retired broomsquire, was aghast when, shortly after he’d joined her with bawdy intentions in the hay-stuffed sackcloth that passed for their conjugal bed, his wife and helpmate Hoggesflesh informed him that his penis was crummy.

“You’re not exactly in the bloom of youth yourself!” the former twig-tyer cried. “Believe me, there are things I could say about your vagina. For example, I could compare it to an empty bag of potato chips, or a worn-out baseball mitt, or for that matter, a dusty sarcophagus, or an old rusted out pipe, or a piece of lasagna left out overnight on the kitchen counter during dry weather, or even a thrift shop penny loafer. In fact, the only thing stopping me from making such comparisons is the fear of what could happen to me, socially speaking, if I did and you subsequently posted about it on the internet. For one thing, Shlomo the cobbler would almost surely be prohibited by his wife from ever inviting me over again for brandy and stimulating conversation about the relative merits of realism versus nominalism, and for another, I highly doubt Eanflæd the garment weaver would be willing to sell me a new undertunic at the upcoming market day, which would be bad news indeed considering my current one reminds me more and more every time I catch a passing whiff of it of the back end of a dyspeptic hognose.”

“My dear,” came Hoggesflesh’s reply, “I’m afraid you’ve got me all wrong. I didn’t say your penis was crummy – I said it was crumby.”

And in all fairness to Hoggesflesh, considering that Stickball had spent the entire afternoon naked below the waist eating croissants and Cadbury Flakes, it probably was.