On losing the taste for the sport.

It's a good thing I got out
of the game when I did--
I was beginning to hate
its ultimate goal.

Have you ever actually seen
one of those things?
Most are by no means attractive
and seem almost foreign
some alien life form
grotesquely slimy, hideously confusing
like a lobster's face.

The smell of most
isn't much better.
Even the prettiest girls
get a fair share of funk
where the sun don't shine
after a day's worth of friction.
It's nothing to be ashamed of, ladies.
Just be more appreciative
of the next guy who goes down.

And he will, in more ways than one
and that's my real gripe--
not the various forms of unsettling discharge
nor strange pasty stains on inside-out underwear
nor any other of the physical oddities
of that unholy hole.
It's the unfair advantage that you're sitting on
that really gets to me, and more specifically
its ability to drive a man over the edge.

Case in point:
Here lies John Q. Average, another sad victim
of the Vagina Conspiracy.
Dignity and reasoning
first to go, followed by soul and spirit.
"Bros before...nevermind.
I'm turning off my phone,"
and that's only the beginning of the travesty
of sacrifice that comes with the territory
that I'm relieved to no longer
let enslave me.

It comes when it comes
so to speak.
(For me, it may never again
thanks to this one.)
It goes more easily.
(Yeah, now we're talkin'!)

Free at last.



Just kidding, girls.
Treasure that goldmine.