Monday, December 28, 2020

The Guardian's Predictions for 2021

After this nightmare year, one thing is for certain: we are all desperately grabbing at hope. I know I am, which is why I was thrilled to see an article in the Guardian quoting psychics on their predictions for the future. That's exactly what I need, I thought: their clear, bright vision would re-energize me and spark hope that in 2021 life could be enjoyable once more.

For the most part, they didn't let me down. Here are some of the predictions and how they touched me.


Jayne Wallace is clairvoyant and practices aura reading, tarot and crystal healing. Her clients include Kim Kardashian West, Kylie Jenner and Kate Hudson.
(Wow. Résumés don't get more impressive than that. At least without stars of Charles in Charge.)

"Every crystal has a different voice.... The darker, deeper the colour, the stronger the voice."

In heaven right now Nina Simone is like "FUCK YEAH!!!"

"As I link in to the first quarter of 2021, the biggest question people have is health."

Which is weird, because during the Great Pandemic of 1812 everybody was fixated on tacos.

"[T]hose first months are going to be stressful in terms of mental health. Make sure you have people around you who you love."

Shit. Okay, but my family isn't going to take this well.

"March through to June is about division in health, as well as realisation – understanding and accepting why some have suffered worse."

Acceptance #1: I'm not rich or related to Trump so I'll get the vaccine after chickens colonize Mars.

"For the first four to five months [of 2021], there will be weak structure."

Huh. Yeah, I guess it could be difficult for Biden to get anything done after Trump tears all the wiring out of the White House.


Demian Allan is a teacher at the College of Psychic Studies in London, and has practised western astrology for more than 20 years.
"We are entering a period of technological revolution in 2021 that will change jobs, education and how we interact...."

I would never have guessed that, because Zoom stock is still forty-five cents a share.

"Coronavirus is not going to disappear but Mars moves out of Taurus on 4 March, easing the general health picture."

That's a bold stance. I thought some klutz might drop a bucket of the vaccine and be like, "Damn! Well, let's try again for April."

"In this country, we tend to try to engineer things back to the norm."

Because in other countries when, like, your refrigerator breaks down, you think, "Hey, instead of just repairing it, why don't we convert it into an otter sanctuary?"


Tatianna Morales has been a tarot reader and holistic healer for six years
"Card: The Ten of Wands. [This card] points to working smarter, not harder,..."

Sounds to me like the cards have seen too many T.D. Ameritrade commercials.

"Card: The Page of Swords. [This card] brings an energy of busyness, of research and strategy in 2021."

Shit. And I was just warming up to "Let Go, Let God."

"It asks that if you are inspired to take up new studies, hobbies or find new income streams, you take action."

Let me write that down. "If you want to do something, just do it." Oh, wait: it's already on my shoes.


Dale Spencer Weeks has practised as a psychic numerologist and seer for nine years....
"If 2020 has been about building a rocket ship, I liken 2021 to that ship taking off."

Interesting. But what if 2020 has been about dismantling your rockets so your enemies wouldn't release your pee tape?

"It’s going to be a huge year of change."

To all the skeptics out there, there have been a few years of absolutely no change. but they were so boring everybody forgot.

"There will also be political unrest and missiles will fly."

Shit! I had fifty bucks on missiles taking the train this year.

"[T]he vibe of 2021 is about expression and looking for freedom."

Fingers crossed that means everybody named Trump will be in jail.

"People will speak out in large groups...."

Finally! Because now every time eight of my friends get together, Paco is always, like, "Hey, guys, you know the rule!"

"[I]t is not only those with peaceful or progressive views who will seek to be heard."

That'll be a big change from 2020, when we didn't hear from any conservative gun nuts.

"February brings a seven vibration, a time when truth will be revealed. Medically, that could indicate wider availability of a vaccine."

Damn it. Okay, you win. Nobody's gonna drop a bucket of the vaccine.

"We may see revelations about the government."

I'm not so sure. Maybe Biden will also bitchslap anybody who crosses him on Twitter.


June Field was voted the world’s greatest psychic medium, beating 70,000 others in International Battle Of The Psychics
(Stop reading right now if you're a doubter asking, "Why did the other 69,999 psychics bother entering?")

"These next 12 months are a stepping stone to something better."

Honestly, I appreciate that, but things can't get worse unless masturbation makes us burst into flame.

"People are in denial about the virus and that causes friction."

This is absolutely spot on. I'll never forget my first boyfriend who was all, like, "You act like gonorrhea is a bad thing."

"Long before coronavirus arrived in the UK, I had cancelled work commitments – theatre dates and events. I felt death coming. I wanted to give the year a miss."

Well, you've got to hand it to her: she can hit it out of the park predicting past events.

"2021 will present an opportunity to reassess what’s important."

Because in 2020 we were all like, "Fuck worrying: let's dance!"

"In politics, I feel there is major change coming next year."

I agree, and I'm actually kind of worried about that. Fingers crossed Biden can keep America on track without the genius of Ivanka Trump.

"You don’t need to be a psychic to see the anger over how this has been handled."

You don't need to be a psychic to see anything you've said so far.

"Political systems will be taken down, but we will then rebuild."

Really? Everybody I've talked to has said, "There's no way we can replace Donald Trump or Boris Johnson. Let's just watch cat videos for the next twelve years."

"We will hug again next year, and we will come through this."

Love the positivity, but it's not exactly a risky prediction. Because if we don't come through this, only cockroaches and Cher will be around to call you a quack.


Read more here.

Wednesday, December 16, 2020

Ram Tough

We know exactly two things about oversized American trucks: they burn through enormous amounts of gasoline, and they're primarily driven by politically-conservative men who allegedly have small dicks. Or is there some other explanation for why the truck names are indistinguishable from the brand names of penis pumps? Here's a list with a sampling of each. See if you can tell them apart.

a. Grand Stallion
b. Nitro
c. Ramrod
d. Sport Trac Adrenalin
e. Red Studmaster
f. Explorer
g. Magnum
h. Gladiator
i. Ranger
j. Commando
k. Power Man 6000
l. F-250 Super Duty





Answers: b, d, f, i and l are American trucks. a, c, e, g, j and k are penis pumps. h is actually both. Here's more information for those curious about one or the other.

a. The Grand Stallion has a tapered latex sleeve and easy-to-use gliding action.

b. The Dodge Nitro is powered by a 4.0 L SOHC V6 engine rather than AA batteries.

c. The Ramrod has a battery pack conveniently attached for single-handed operation.

d. The Ford Sport Trac Adrenalin has a blown 4.6 engine making 390 pound-feet of torque. If it were a penis pump, it would be Jon Hamm.

e. The Red Studmaster has a studded adjustable cock ring, but no cup holder.

f. The Ford Explorer is available in an Eddie Bauer edition.

g. The Magnum is equipped with a new safety vacuum gauge. Don't try to imagine what could happen without it.

h. With three-foot clearance, the Jeep Gladiator could easily ride over anybody's penis. Unlike the silicone Gladiator, however, it has no internal nubs.

i. The Ford Ranger has a towing capacity of 4,200 penis pumps.

j. The Commando is penis-shaped, with a multi-speed vibrating bullet. We told our boyfriend we have no idea what that means.

k. The Power Man 6000 comes with a pleasure ring attachment. You could use it without it but, like, why?

l. The Ford F-250 Super Duty is twenty feet long. We bet its owners claim it's forty-five.

Tuesday, December 8, 2020

I live in a cramped New York apartment. It's so cramped that whenever I buy anything I have to toss something out, because I just can't cram in one more thing. Last month I bought a new lamp, so after careful consideration I decided a pair of pants would have to go.

I decided to sell those pants on eBay.

Now, the pants weren't in very good shape. The knees were baggy, the hems were frayed, and there was a quarter-sized hole in the seat. There was no way I'd wear them again, but with all the talk about reusing and recycling I just couldn't toss them out. I listed them with a starting bid of $1 and hoped somebody less fortunate would find them.

When somebody bid a dollar, it made my day. I'd done my part for the environment, and helped some poor person on a budget. When the bidding went to $10, my heart was full. It meant somebody truly appreciated these pants, and they'd take good care of them. Plus, it paid me back a bit for the time I spent photographing them and writing up the description.

Then one morning I turned on the computer and discovered the pants were going for thirty-five dollars. This knocked me for a loop. I mean, the pants didn't cost that new, so there was no reason they should command that kind of cash after I'd worn them a few years. There were four bidders involved, so I thought maybe they got carried away by the excitement. I thought about cancelling the auction, since a mistake had obviously been made, but figured it'd be a good lesson for all concerned.

The next day, when the bidding got up to sixty dollars, I got angry. Clearly there was more to this than just a simple pair of pants. Now there were nine bidders duking it out, and twelve people added the sale to their "Watch" list. This proved to me beyond a shadow of a doubt that something unseemly was going on.

And then it hit me like a bolt of lightning that almost made my breakfast come back up. I'd heard about vending machines in Japan where they sold the panties of schoolgirls, and realized the same sort of feckless perverts were fighting over my pants as well. My stomach churned as I imagined what the winning bidder would do to them: would his tongue explore the crotch like Lawrence explored Arabia? Would he suck every ounce of my sweat from the faded fabric? Would he pore over every nook and cranny searching for wayward, discolored spots of my bodily fluids? If his magnifying glass chanced upon a a hair from the nether regions of my body, would he press it to his face in ecstacy as he performed some vile onanistic deed?

Over the next few days, though, my anger ebbed, and when the pants hit $110 I turned flattered. I mean, indigent perverts are tawdry and disgusting, but now there were clearly businesspeople involved. I pictured these men -- accountants, lawyers, stock brokers -- sitting at their computers after a long day at work, ties loosened and Brooks Brothers boxers tenting at the thought of winning my tight, tight jeans and caressing them in their manicured hands. They'd press their faces up against their computer monitors and run their eyes across the outline of my muscular legs in the fabric, faded like the shroud of Turin. Then one lucky man would win them, and get to feel the warm cotton himself, left alone to his own perverted ends. It was sick and it was depraved and, by God, I couldn't get the thought out of my head.

I was haunted. Possessed. Which inextricably leads me to an open letter I'd like to share with the buyer.

When you typed in that $140 offer, I became a walking pool of turgid testosterone, ready to pounce on anything that moved. I couldn't rest until you had my pants in your determined hands. Were you hunky and continental, like Antonio Banderas? Were you a stylish, manly gay with a dark streak, like Tom Ford? Or were you a billionaire daddy entrepreneur like Ted Turner whose wealth gave him the opportunity to play out his every demented desire? As I packed the pants into the box to ship, I pleasured myself as I pictured you.

Given the circumstances, then, I think you can see why I threw in the underwear. After I wiped myself clean with them, it occurred to me that you might appreciate something I'd worn even closer to my skin. I pictured you with my grubby shorts plastered across your face, wearing a look of pure erotic bliss, and I felt a bond of kinship between us, separated by space but joined together by kink and a tiny pair of striped bikini briefs polka-dotted with pee. And that's when I wrote that little note.

So, I'd like to offer you a profound, heartfelt apology. I had absolutely no idea they were vintage Levis worth twice what you paid for them, and that nobody but me had anything untoward in mind. Please, burn the note, and toss the underwear straight into the trash. How horrified you must have been to pull them out of the ziploc bag and hear them crackle in your hands. I didn't realize some of the bidders were women, let alone religious ones in Utah.

In closing, I'd like to make it perfectly clear that you are certainly not a disgusting little pig who should be bent over my knee and paddled until your buttcheeks are red and burning with a heady mix of pain and pleasure, and, had I known you were a pillar of the Salt Lake City community, I would never have ordered you to suck the man-juice out of my filthy ball-rag.

Please, tell the police this was all a horrible mistake and I promise I'll never eBay again.

Your Loyal ex-eBay Seller,
RomanHans

Thursday, December 3, 2020

Over the last few days I've gotten literally hundreds of emails all saying the exact same thing: Roman, I just saw Harrison Ford on Access Hollywood. It was hard for me to believe, but he was getting his chest waxed. Even weirder, he said he was doing it to draw attention to world deforestation.

No, it was not a dream. World deforestation.

Roman, I've been wracking my brain for days now and hope you can help. Why is Harrison Ford getting his chest waxed like world deforestation?

Dear Readers,

I'm glad you wrote, as it seems quite obvious to me. Of course, I nearly have a degree from a major university. Harrison Ford getting his chest waxed is like world deforestation ...

10. Because like trees, grasses, mosses, and lichen, Harrison Ford's body hair converts carbon dioxide to oxygen.

9. Because after a country is deforested, it looks a lot better in an open shirt.

8. Because timber companies often clear forests just to make it easier to apply sunscreen.

7. Because chest hair is great at preventing runoff, if you know what I mean.

6. Because after they're done clearcutting, lumberjacks frequently offer to tweeze your eyebrows for free.

5. Because like trees, Harrison Ford's chest hair provides a home for thousands of species of wildlife.

4. Because when you cut trees down, they frequently scream "KELLY CLARKSON!"

3. Because when trees are allowed to grow wild across a country, it can be difficult to find its nipples.

2. Because when I think hard wood, I think Harrison Ford.

1. It's an metaphor: once its chest has been stripped bare, all the earth will have left is its pubes.


Saturday, November 28, 2020

Thrilled, Chilled, and Possibly Killed

Tall men don't find a lot of amusement at amusement parks. Ridiculous admission prices, sure. Stomach-churning fast food, definitely. And whole hordes of Juicy Couture-wearing midwesterners who shove Mickey Mouse aside to stalk us, screaming "HOW TALL ARE YEW?" and "ARE YER PARENTS TALL?" But fun? Not a chance. Because when you're six foot eight, thrill rides are more of an actual fright than some casual thrill.

Now, I'm not talking about those traveling carnivals that skinny tattoed dudes set up in the parking lots of your local Pic N' Save. They'll scare anybody with a brain, and not just because you'll find thicker metal in Halle Berry's bra. No, I mean the roller coasters at major amusement parks. Space Mountain, Disneyland, Six Flags. The Matterhorn, the Cyclone, Colossus. The permanent ones. The ones where the owners can't skip town if somebody sues.

We start to worry when we hear the warnings: "Please keep your hands and arms inside the car at all times." This has always confused me. Isn't there a way of phrasing it where the two body parts don't sound completely distinct? I feel like replying, "Well, I'll keep my arms in the car, but where my hands go is anybody's guess!"

As we wait in line we replay the words over and over in our heads, slowly deciphering what they mean. They're saying that our little roller coaster car will barrel past things that are both (a) stationary and (b) cement, and they'll be within the average-sized person's reach. They're saying that an average-sized person stands a chance of death or disfigurement if they protrude too far from the car.

All the regular-sized folks, of course, couldn't care less. They laugh and joke and suck down their eight-dollar sodas, knowing that any amusement park that damages their puny little asses is just asking for a lawsuit. They'll go crazy on the ride, waving at friends on the ground, flinging their arms around so they'll fly up out of their seats, trying to snap off bits of passing stucco for souvenirs. They don't give it a second thought, and there's no real reason they should.

The tall guy, though, senses a real problem. He's gone through life protruding too far, in at least a couple different directions at once. Blithely wave your hands in the air while we're careening down that hill and you're not even going to reach my Adam's Apple. In fact, you're in serious danger of picking my nose. Once I scratched the back of my neck on a cruise ship and I knocked three folks on the Lido Deck overboard. If they're saying size could be a problem for average folks, you know it's going to be a problem for us.

While everyone is blithely chattering away, then, the tall guy has gone paler than usual. He tries to maneuver toward the speakers to get further details, like there's a tornado approaching, and screams like a banshee so folks'll shut up. He realizes he's got no defense in court: with all the warnings they give, he'd be pulled apart like a crockpot chicken. "Your honor," the defense lawyer would drone, "the man was six foot EIGHT. Six foot EIGHT. Too big to fit into a FORD. Longer than a CANOE. Too tall to wear HUMAN UNDERWEAR. We were warning REGULAR-SIZED folks to be careful -- why on earth would HE get on? Surely he must have realized that getting onto this ride was like leaping headfirst into a CUISINART."

As the sweat accumulates on our foreheads, we try to imagine: how tall do amusement parks think people get?

We're painfully aware of how estimates vary. We've strolled down sidewalks where tree branches have been meticulously trimmed to a five-foot clearance. We've seen pedestrian tunnels with six foot ceilings, and we've stumbled into low-hanging power lines that wrapped around our necks like rubber chokers. Heck, I had to duck to get inside the Taj Mahal. Somebody's made an assumption here, and we suspect that in a scene involving fountains of blood and decapitation we're going to find out what.

We imagine what the world was like when this roller coaster was built. "According to our studies," the designer declares, "ninety nine percent of all people are under six foot two. I suggest, then, that we make allow at least a six foot six clearance in all the tunnels, to allow for puffy hair or Stetson hats. Sure, maybe once in a while we'll get somebody taller in the park, but that 'hands and arms' recording will definitely scare them away."

"I wonder if I'm too tall for this ride," I tell my friends as the next available car halts in front of us. "It's sounding kind of dangerous."

They laugh. "Jeez," Steve says. "For a tall guy, you're really a wimp."

And so with fingers crossed the tall person steps in, buckles himself up, and the car speeds off.

Two minutes later his train pulls into the station, just like every other. All the riders are exhilarated and exhausted and just plain out of breath ... except one. He doesn't wave to the patrons waiting to board the ride, doesn't undo his seatbelt, doesn't clamber his way awkwardly out of the car. Because he's had his head sheared clean off. He's sitting there perfectly still, but blood is shooting out of the neck and splashing all over the white vinyl seats.

The attendants look at him, all strapped in, his white knuckles still gripping the lap bar, and they share a shocked look.

"Wow," one says. "I wonder if his parents were tall."

Thursday, November 12, 2020

Big Feet: Big Stuff or Big Bluff?

In the history of the universe, ever since Nothing turned into Something, since cosmic dust turned into Zara stores and salamanders evolved into aura consultants, there have been exactly four studies to determine whether Big Feet mean Big Meat.

Scientists have examined virtually everything: why the sky is blue, why birds sing, why toast always lands butter side down (Svenska Joornal der Breakfaast, 1997, pp. 162-217). So why the penis ennui? When I'm hanging around some bar, trying to choose between the reasonably-attractive tall guy and the drop-dead gorgeous short guy, the last thing on my mind is dirty bread.

Gay people blame homophobia for all kinds of stuff, but I'm thinking it's involved here as well. This is the most frequently asked question of all time, surpassing even "Who killed JFK?" and "How did that whole Trump thing start?" A million times a day somebody asks if there's a connection, and that's just the folks who catch me in clothes.

Scientists, I'm guessing, don't want to be tarred by that "gay" feather. It's okay to grow a spare ear on the back of a mouse, or genetically merge chickens with Miracle Whip so they'll start laying egg salad. But get another man excited? That's just plain weird. What are the other scientists going to think? "That Guenther, he likes the penis a little too much," they'd tell their assistants. "Now go sew these lips on that dog." And how's his wife going to feel when he comes home and recounts his day? "Honey!" he calls, setting his briefcase on the hall table, "I saw a real whopper this morning!" She might feign enthusiasm to his face, but you know she's going to tell her family he's unemployed.

Even these four studies seem a little skittish, since they all have serious flaws. The first declares there's no significant correlation between penis length and shoe size, though somehow they've avoided handling erect penises. They "gently stretch" them, like they're tight socks, and measure them that way. Because, you know, who's got the energy to get a guy hard?

I want to tell these researchers that nobody cares how stretchy penises are. I have friends who have sex with rubber plants, and friends who have sex with balloons, but I don't know anybody who wants to get screwed by taffy. Then I notice their disclaimer: they don't need to measure erections, because an earlier study showed a strong correlation between stretched length and erect length.

This sounds a little farfetched to me, so I check it out. I'll just say two things about that study: one, math is boring even with big dicks involved; and two, while the correlation between stretched and hard length was 0.793, the correlation between soft and hard length was 0.678.

Translated into English, it means guessing how much bigger a stretched penis will get is just slightly more reliable than guessing how much bigger a soft, dangly penis will get. And if that were even remotely possible, I wouldn't have cried myself to sleep three times last week.

A few months later a second group of scientists comes along, and they decide they can do better. "To hell with stretching dicks!" they proclaim. "We'll have guys measure their own!"

I'll pause here so we can all laugh at these people. Mature men with advanced degrees, wearing white coats and stethoscopes, based a study on the assumption that men wouldn't lie about their endowments. Maybe they phoned the guys and asked how long their dicks were, or maybe they shoved them into little cubicles while they waited squeamishly outside. Either way seems pretty silly to me, and I buy my cologne from Rite Aid. Doctors can remove your spleen or transplant your gallbladder or even smear a woman's pap, but getting a guy visibly excited, well . . . that's not somewhere anyone wants to go.

Anybody who's ever answered a personal ad knows how that study turned out. They didn't find any correlation between shoe size and penis length -- maybe because regardless of shoe size, everybody reported nineteen inches. Guys lie about everything, even when they know they'll get caught. "That's in dog years," they admit when you question their age. "That's on the moon," they say when you doubt their weight. As for endowment, cold weather is a popular excuse. Except I lived with one of these guys for nearly a year, and two weeks in Death Valley wouldn't have nudged him toward tiny.

Eventually a third research group steps into the breach. "That second study was nonsense," they decree, "so we're going to reenact the first." They stretch, they measure, and there's no correlation.

The veil is lifted slightly by our fourth and final group, though they're stretchers as well. "We think we found something in index fingers," they announce, "but we just didn't see enough penises." You can criticize these guys if you want -- they should get better funding, or try to sign up volunteers -- but I just want to buy them a beer and say, buddy, you and me both.

And so here I sit, a ridiculously tall man who gets asked three hundred times a day if big feet mean big meat. I don't like sharing my own personal data, at least until guys have bought me appetizers, so I've always said nobody knows. Now I can add a well-informed postscript: that nobody's done a study comparing erect penis length to shoe size, or finger length, or height. That the geniuses in our prestigious research institutes have more pressing things to do, like calculating the force required to shoot a sheep to the moon (Applied Ovine Ergonomics, Nov. 2002, pp. 523-81). That maybe it's time gay scientists stepped up to the plate.

Heck, I'll volunteer, if that'll help. Because when my time comes, I'd be pretty damned proud to have this on my tombstone:

Here lies RomanHans.

He wasn't a doctor, or a scientist, or even particularly smart.

But he sure wasn't afraid to get a guy hard.

Saturday, November 7, 2020

Tall guys have to be careful who they go out with. Wander around with another tall guy and the world will cower at your feet. Hang out with an average-sized guy and you'll still get admiring glances. Venture into public with somebody short, though, and you may as well glue a "Kick me!" sign to your ass.

I'm not talking about all the problems due to the height difference. Sure, the short guy will amble along just slightly slower than a disabled dachshund, while snails and Frankenstein scamper past. Then there's the impossibility of having a conversation: his mouth is roughly ten feet from your ear, which means you'd hear more decipherable words out of a seashell. Either you pretend to understand what he's saying and just randomly nod your head, or you actually make the effort and say "What?" every time he speaks. You're going to end up a frustrated hunchback, and he'll burn out his throat yelling like Grandma. Both of you will be spitting nails, but it'll get worse when you start dating seriously and he gives you an ear trumpet for Christmas.

Now, all this is irritating -- I mean, I'd prefer a sweater -- but the real horror is how everybody else treats the two of you like a Ripley's exhibit sprung to life. The rudest folks whip out cameras to get proof to show their friends. You're not just interesting: you're one of the Seven Wonders of the World, and they'll snap away like you're the Virgin Mary made manifest over the Topeka Wal-Mart. They won't just stand across the street and worship from afar: they'll want to twist the pair of you into all sorts of insulting poses. "We wanna play up the height difference," drawls Wilbur from Bag ‘o Pretzels, Idaho, like a redneck Orson Welles. "Why doncha pretend yer stuffin' Tiny in yer big giant pocket?"

"No, no, no," his wife Durlene protests. "Have Tiny sit on Lurch's lap, like he's a ventriloquist's dummy."

I hate taking part in these scenarios, though I actually can talk without moving my lips. I leave the house feeling like an average guy, and then these folks go and spoil it. I want to run screaming for a land where people are compassionate and considerate, but somebody's got to help Tiny climb up onto a chair.

Worse than hanging out with somebody short is hanging out with someone heavy. That's a completely different phenomenon. Now the pair of you won't just look strange: you'll transform into a number. Of course, you'll be the number 10.

Oddly, this is the only time I've heard of people turning alphanumeric. If Pamela Anderson kicked a skier nobody'd see RL. If Marlon Brando screwed Wally Cox nobody'd see Qr. When a pregnant lady frisks a midget, nobody sees BY.

Nope, the number 10 is it. When two tall guys stand side-by-side, nobody says you look like 11. Hang out with a hunchback and nobody thinks you look like 12. Loiter near a snowman and nobody sees 18. But pause for a second near an overweight guy and suddenly everyone's an accountant.

More embarrassing by far, though, is hanging out with a short female, because now everyone will assume you're having sex. And now they won't just casually glance at the pair of you, or stare as you walk by. They'll chase you down the street, screaming in disbelief. They'll follow you home, pluck out their eyes, and roll them under your door to get a better look. And then the inquisition begins, always with the same idiotic question:

"Gawrsh, you're like ten dang feet tall, and she's eentsy as a mouse. How in the name of Our Good Lord Jesus do the two of you manage to have SAYYY-ex?"

Now, I get so confused by this I wonder if I'm doing something wrong. Height doesn't have anything to do with any of my bedroom activities, yet these folks give me the feeling I shouldn't let anyone under five foot eight take a ride. I mean, it's not like my partner and I aren't flexible. It's not like furniture doesn't exist. C'mon -- half the stepstools you see are like twelve inches high. They're not made for changing lightbulbs.

I thought about this long and hard, and I narrowed it down to two possibilities. One, they're concerned that while our genitals are busy, our faces are too far apart to express affection. Sure, I'm not thrilled that my mouth is closer to the Australian outback than my current companion, but as long as our middles meet I'm fine. It's like eating cookies on a roller coaster: I'm getting enough stimulation already, thanks -- let's save the Oreos until afterwards.

The other possibility is, they're worried that our genitals don't match up when we're standing. Yup, it's true: I have to bend my knees to do it doggy style, and sometimes I end up yowling like a chilly chihuahua. Apparently it's good exercise: my arms may look like sticks, but my thighs rub together when I walk.

Either way, I refuse to dignify this stupidity with an intelligent response. Usually I ignore it, but sometimes I get mad. I wonder why I have to put up with this. I wonder why these idiots think it's a question you can ask a stranger. "I do it the same way you do it," I announce. "Except I don't have any relatives in the room."

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