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

Parenting is Like Training for the Olympics

“Hey daddy?”

“Yes son? I’m right here by the way. Right in front of you. In fact, besides the dog, I’m the only living creature who can communicate in English with you…right now…this very moment. So, there’s really no need to begin your ten-thousandth question with my name.”

“Daddy?”

“Yes Grayson.”

“You think I can have a friend over this afternoon?”

“Probably not buddy. Your mom and I have to do a couple things.”

“Can you do them while I have a friend over?”

“No Grayson. Seriously, we’re going to need you to have some down time and just read or play on your own so we can knock out this project.”

“Are you going to begin the project now? Can I have someone over before the project?”

“No, we’re getting ready to do the project.”

“How about after? If someone comes over during I’ll be out of your way and you can work on the project.”

“Grayson. Stop talking. Stop asking questions. The answer’s no!”

“Why?”

“Because I’m your father and I explained enough that we have plans and they don’t include you having a friend over!!”

I walk away to get water. Three steps into the kitchen I hear the boy say, “Hey daddy?”

And at that very moment in time you realize the patience, control, training and strength an Olympian must feel when they’re seconds from their race. Fuck yeah I just compared parenting to being an Olympian! Are you gonna look me in the eye-balls and tell me I’m wrong!?!

My son’s questions are becoming mind-numbingly painful. To the point to where I feel like I should set aside an hour a day to take his future teacher out for drinks after the school bell rings each day.

But you know how I get by?

I dream.

I dream of a day. A sunny, yet cool day.  

And I have a handshake agreement with the world that after this next conversation with my child goes down it will be erased from his memory.

And for once I have a green light to answer the boy’s questions how I see fit.

And it goes down like this:

The Boy: “Daddy?”

Me: “Say Daddy again I can assure you I won’t close the door or turn the fans and radio on the next time your mom and I have sex!!”

The Boy: “Can I have a play date?”

Me: “You're adopted and Santa's not real.”

The Boy: “Why are you so stressed?”

Me: “Because my dear boy, your questions are like a weed eater against my shin….relentlessly slicing me until I feel like walking into traffic!!”

The Boy: “Wanna go kick the soccer ball?”

Me: “Fuck yes!”

And then we go outside, kick the ball with great music playing in the background. And that’s when I start asking the questions…

“How was camp dude?”

“Are you excited for soccer season to start?”

“You know I love you right?”

And when he becomes a teenager, roles will reverse….and he…he will be the one blogging about his dad’s incessant painfully boring questions. And he’ll be wishing them to stop.

So until then, I’ll keep perspective and keep answering to my new beloved name, “Hey Daddy?”