Circumcision is possibly one of the longest standing tragedies known to mankind. It is simultaneously empowering and emasculating, a connector of the populace while being its darkest, most tragic secret. And that lack of knowledge can lead to disappointing (yet hilarious) places.
Of course, I’m talking about me. Up until this summer, I actually believed that circumcision involved snipping off “the tip” and leaving the golden staff a mear rusty rod. ¡Qué pena! For too long I wondered what my life would be if they hadn’t cut off “too much”. For too long I feared what my partner would think of my dying mushroom. For TOO LONG have myself and my kin habitually been served the short end of the stick.
After engrossing myself in the world of my geniuses with tiny penises, I realized just how far we have fought for our rights. Protesting on parking lot edges and gas station parking lot edges and outside Champlain College. I witnessed the genius innovation of those broken souls who try their hardest to regain their missing piece. One man attached a weight to his tip and let it hang like the ticking grandiosity of a grandfather clock. In his sleep, a pulley system would elevate and erect his foreskin to new heights, cuddling and caressing his damaged soul.
Then the truth hit me like a dick to the face. “Circumcision” does not involve chopping off part of one’s memorabilia and scarfing it down like a plate of escargot; it only removes a layer of foreskin for religious or medical reasons. Zounds!— Tricked yet again! The utter humility I suffered that day can be emphasized by this forlorn warning: sometimes in life, it’s better to suffer embarrassment than to have to live in ignorance, to be silently mocked by those hooded phalli in their ivory towers. Knowledge is freeing, my friend, as it hands us the tools needed to behead those tricky dicks in charge who wish to push us to the margins of society.