Laughably Small

Back in the days when I had a proper job, the chief account executive of the company where I worked (or, at least, where I went through the motions of doing so) owned a very expensive, very powerful foreign sports car. It was his penis substitute; so called because, just 30 seconds after he turned on the ignition, its suspension collapsed and all the tyres went flat. These disadvantages aside, however, he probably still regarded the thing as compensation of sorts for having a very small dick.

Many under-endowed men seem to think similarly: that the purchase of a high-priced, impressive looking car somehow makes up for their physical deficiencies. So many in fact, that, in my opinion, EC or UK legislation should now be introduced to ensure that there is indeed a direct, standardized correlation between penis size and make and model of car. After all, if they can legislate on such things as the size and shape of bananas and cucumbers, why not here, too?

Of course, these new rules would transform car dealerships totally. No longer could you just walk into a showroom, wave your cheque book, and say “I’ll have that.” Instead, you’d first be required to drop your trousers, whereupon the receptionist would whip out a ruler (or, if necessary, a micrometer) and check out what was on offer. In this way, if you’d gone in there with your heart set on owning, say, a Ferrari Maranello, she could gently point out, with reference to the measurements she’d just taken that, though your dick might be small, it wasn’t actually that small and that, consequently, a Ferrari Testarossa would probably suit better. Or conversely, if you’d gone in for a Porsche Boxter, she’d have to tell you that you were a bit too small to buy that specific model, and so, as a result, would need to stump up the extra cash for a Carrera. Whatever, at the end of the day, you’d be given a list of cars that corresponded exactly to your personal proportions and from which (and only from which) you’d be allowed to make your choice.

Naturally, some would no doubt argue that it’s not how big it is, it’s what you do with it that counts. Fine. Those who claim this should be restricted to Dinky Toys and be legally mandated to take them, still boxed up, to the nearest singles’ bar or night club to try their luck, a photographer from the national newspapers in tow to record their subsequent humiliation. And what of people of respectable dimensions who can’t actually get it up? No problem: sell them the correspondingly-featured car, but make it illegal for them to buy petrol for it.

In this way, the price, make, and performance of the car would tell you precisely, and without fear of contradiction, what you needed to know about the man.