Apocarteresis (a-po-car-ter’-e-sis): Casting of all hope away from one thing and placing it on another source altogether.
I tried Viagra but it did not work. I swallowed the blue pill. I crushed it and snorted it. I stuck it up my ass. I dumped the bottle in the tub and took a bath in it. I am ashamed to say, I made a 3% solution and injected it in my leg. I powdered it, mixed it with hot black coffee and dunked my pecker in it. I’m still wearing the bandage from the burn. I have tried the generic stuff: Boing!, Undy Tent, Throb, Straight Up, and Redwood Root. It is all crap, at least for me. Oh, I tried a pump and it just made me numb and turned my hooter purple.
There’s new product for limpness that just came onto the market, and that’s being advertised on all the porn sites with favorable reviews: “I went from limp noodle to crispy carrot,” “I have a crowbar in my pants,” “At the nude beach, I am a human sundial, “It’s like a compass pointing to my favorite destination.” With these kind’s of endorsements, I would be a fool not to try the “Erectorator.” It uses the latest digital technology to “coax your penis to its pinnacle.” I ordered a Erectorator as soon as I fished my wife’s credit card out of her purse—she had destroyed mine after the motorcycle purchase “incident.” But now, I am sure she will love the Erectorator.
It arrived today! I ran upstairs and plugged it in. It made a whooping sound and flashed blue, red, green and yellow. A voice like Siri’s said “Stick it in big boy” and all the lights started flashing in unison. So, I stuck it in. The Siri voice said “Too small” “Too small” over and over again. I threw the Erectorator on the floor, but it wouldn’t shut up. It started crawling across the floor toward me repeating “Stick it in big boy” in a garbled Siri voice. I threw it out my bedroom window. It landed in the driveway and slowly squirmed it’s way across the street. I could barely hear it still saying “Stick it in big boy.” Suddenly, my neighbor came out his front door with a shotgun. “It’s the only way to shut these damn things up,” he yelled, “It’s what I had to do with mine!” BLAM! BLAM! BLAM!
I will never get my money back, but I didn’t care. I had learned a valuable lesson: If at first you don’t succeed, try, try again. I just ordered a pound of Chinese Dickweed Tea. It promises to “Align the emperor’s root with heaven.” No more electric gizmos for me. I can’t wait.
Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu)
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