The quoted title of this entry is, from stories told, what I incessantly screamed after coming out of general anesthesia involved in my circumcision when I was five years old. You think that’s scary? My brother was seven.
Apparently, or at least according to Wired, there’s some sort of grassroots movement advocating foreskin restoration (pun fully intended). My mom told me we were going out for ice cream, and I ended up getting my penis mutilated… so you can agree that I wasn’t complicit in the decision back in ’78. Given that the last time a scalpel was anywhere NEAR my penis was 26 years ago (not counting that one time in college)… why the everlovingfuck would I consciously opt for my dick to be cut open EVER again?
Or, why would I tape shit to my penis? Or, why would I attach weights to my penis? Or… y’know… why would ANYBODY… except for maybe those crazy assholes in the Jackass movie that’s been in heavy rotation on Cinemax?
Count me the fuck out. My little guy is fine, thankyouverymuch. Now where the fuck is my ice cream?!