Embrace Your Boner, Brother!

Weeny bikini bathing suits are named that for a reason. And our dear, Olympic bronze-medal-clad American rower Henrik Rummel showed us exactly why.

Those non-sexy suits are named that cause you can see everyone’s weeny weenie. Unless you’re sporting a raging, impressive hard-on, like my man Rummel was whilst on the award’s stage at the Olympics.

As you can imagine, his upright manhood made quite the stir on the interweb machine thingy. So much so, that he felt the need to make a public statement in which he claimed his pecker was not an actual erection, but merely his junk got stuck in that famous up-right position when he climbed into tight man-pants.

This upset me to no end. To the point to where I felt I needed to write him about his unfortunate boner situation.

An Open Letter To Olympic Medalist Henrik Rummel:

Dear Mr. Rummel:

Congratulations on winning the bronze for our great country. To say you did us proud would be an understatement. Your team did a miraculous job stroking yourselves into the history books. We are humbled.

I’m writing you to address the situation in which you’ve found yourself since the moment you took stage to receive your coveted medal. If you will, indulge me in a quick childhood story of mine.

When I was just a wee lad – I think around the age of 8 or 9 – I was on a swim team. We were all issued red weeny bikinis to wear for practices and meets.

For some reason the older kids took to calling me “boner.” I can’t quite remember getting a boner back in those days. It could have been my little pecker just poked out the front… or maybe it was reacting to the amazing feeling of that thin 80s bathing suit material and actually did get erect.

Either way, I had no clue what a boner was. I thought maybe it was badass, like I was getting some nickname relating to a skull and crossbones or a Harley Davidson motorcycle club.

But then I started noticing the laughter that followed being called “boner.” I was being laughed at damn it. I had to get to the bottom of this boner thing immediately.

Since there was no Google back in those days I did the next best thing and went straight to my mom.

“Mom? What’s a boner?”

I remember those words coming out of my mouth like it was yesterday. And two minutes later I was horrified. I wanted to burn that weeny bikini and never wear it again. I spent the rest of the season with my hands in front of my crotch or towel around my waist.

You see, my Olympic friend….looking back at it, I realize I should have embraced my boner.

I should have reveled in the fact my little pecker could even be seen at that age. I should have started introducing myself to people as “Boner.” I should have strutted my stuff by all the teenage girls on the swim team and been all “hey baby. Yeah….it’s real. It’s all me. Wanna hold hands?”

Instead I hid it.

You have an opportunity to represent everyone out there who’s erect pecker has revealed itself to the masses through a thin veil of material. Stand up, stick your chest out and proclaim to the world, “that is my boner, and it IS sticking straight up in the air!!”

Then take that medal and hang it from your man-wand while saluting the red, white and blue of this great country of ours. You’re an Olympian! A bronze medal winning Olympian and you have every right to get the biggest boner of your life and embrace it in front of the world.

Do it for America! And know that we’ll be right there in our living rooms proud as hell and turning to our wives to ask, “mine’s bigger than that, right?”

Your Biggest Fan,

Justin