A subject has appeared in the newspapers for which George is ill-equipped to address. With penises being my favorite appendage, I’ll handle it myself. It seems a British lad aged six had his torn off in an automobile accident. Nothing could be done until the poor man was forty when, in 2012, British scientists sewed on an 8-inch replacement. The less-than-completely happy recipient, nicknamed Mo, failed to inform his blushing bride that his phony phallus wasn’t fit for conjugation before they married. Patient, she waited a good while before divorcing him for lack of performance, one assumes.
Very recently, wifeless and girlfriend-free, Mo’s scientist friends have rigged his formerly flaccid phallus with two tubes and a button on his testicles to press for full functionality when the mood strikes. Charitable sex worker and erstwhile politician Charlotte Rose is donating her services to fill the void. After a nice dinner, she is giving him two hours of her valuable time gratis. No mention was made of overtime. Perhaps, all of her tricks will be exhausted in such little time.
Mo should’ve called me. I would’ve given him a long weekend just for the fun of playing with a new toy and wouldn’t have to buy me dinner. I’ve had long, short, skinny, fat, and bent but never bionic. I also think I could make the button redundant (to use the British definition) given the chance. Challenges like this are up my alley. I’ve been known to raise the dead but never the dickless. Of course, all of the men I’ve entertained have been completely capable, or at least were at one time. Reinvigorating with my special talents is one thing but resurrecting something that was never alive would be quite an achievement. I may be just the girl to raise the dead.
I’ve got to go make a phone call to London. I’ll let you know how things work out.
If you want to know more about my tricks, read my memoir, Only Tim Sent Flowers.