As you know, you’re a well-respected man in the department, but you’ve got this circus-style organ between your legs and I just think you should be aware of the fact that your colleagues envy the Helen of Troy out of you, and by that I mean that you’ve reduced all the men on the 32nd floor into high-pitched dolls, as if we’ve all had sex changes, or like we’ve been psychologically neutered; once upon a time we were big growling lions grazing the lush landscape, but now, as the daily mythology builds around you, we find ourselves not man enough to lick the adhesive side of envelopes. We are not quite sure what the longterm effects are, how the presence and knowledge of you will affect us in five, fifteen years down the line, but what we do know is that there are intimidation factors that need to be addressed immediately, issues of morale and self-confidence; there’s genuine fear in the faces of formerly ferocious individuals. The idea of being a man, and the inverse, the whole complex notion of not being man enough—it’s an abstract concept, to be sure, as much as you can be sure of something you’re unable to lock down and understand—but we’re going to have to let you go. W-w-with deep regret, we’re going to have to say bon voyage, w-w-which is unfortunate (I have trouble with my W’s—I used to stutter when I was a kid, now it’s back) because you’re a fine employee, a team player, as they say. You see, the whole giant organ thing is negatively affecting the workplace environment. There was a time when the guys looked up to me as the largest thing since the Louisville Slugger. I once inspired awe and fantasy. It was not uncommon for the guys to mill around the water cooler on Monday morning and discuss their sexual success stories and say they were thinking of me—similar to how football players conjure up Knut Rockney to inspire them to greater levels of performance—that images of Kafka (that’s my member’s name) drifted into their thoughts during intercourse; Kafka thought he was a large beetle that couldn’t quite reach the doorknob of his bedroom and walk or crawl out. Now, I did some research on the beetle and discovered that the beetle in The Metamorphosis is a species that has wings. What I’m trying to say is that the penis could’ve flown right out the window and gone to work or school or wherever the hell that unhappy Jewish guy didn’t want to go. All guys name their genitals. First my mother was calling my thing Ding Dang Do. A bad name regardless of its musical appeal. My father called it Samson. He called his own penis The Lizard, and whenever he had to take a leak he’d say, time to walk The Lizard. Creepy, but now that he’s passed on any sight of a reptile sends me into an emotional desert. Since I’m a bookish type and my favorite writer is Kafka, I thought Kafka would be best for me since most sexual encounters are filled with doubt, confusion, and an infinity of paralyzing dread. For a while I considered calling him Gregor but that sounded a little too granular. Last I heard you were calling your member Area 54. I love the concept, but that’s just my point—straining to be one of the guys. Coming up with the perfect nickname. I’m man enough to concede when a bigger tool shows up that can do the job better, but the problem is that your crank is giving everyone nightmares. The guys are waking up screaming in the middle of the night. No one is sleeping. Everyone’s drinking buckets of coffee and then falling asleep in front of their computer and a little later barking their way out of daymares. We spoke to a horse doctor and he said that we need to get rid of the demon-stud. Productivity is way down and this is all during the Viagra era so we’re all hard but not really up for the challenge. Envy is dangerous, it chokes the victim. There’s actually less oxygen to breathe, we’re gasping—and it logically follows that we’d blame the thing we worship, you, our genital deity, after blaming ourselves, our respective gene pools, and God himself, of course, always an easy target, but in the end there’s no one to blame but you, O Cocklord. We were fine before you stepped in and dwarfed our gentle giants. A businessman must never drool. Robert, Bobby, John, and the other Bob are cramming cotton puffs in between their gums and lips to keep the saliva where it belongs, not pooling around our tasseled loafers. You have little eyes, the skull of a T-Rex, and this turbo sperm log which has frankly made us all a bit suicidal. You know how a big cock enters the brain—no, you probably don’t know this, and can’t comprehend a word I’m saying—a bigass dong barrels in the side door of the normal male brain and camps out like a belligerent elephant, refusing to budge. In another life I hope to be a zookeeper for your cage and mop up all the dick sauce your lower half discharges. Most of us work 18 hours a day and box the clown to slo-mo close-ups of one fleshhead sucking on another. But in this current life, this tedious humiliating strip of tightly wound cable, we can’t even accomplish that. Now, the simple relaxing j.o. session has been stolen from our lives, which is another way of saying, mental grand larceny. Granted, we’re surging in the dollars dept., we all own mucho real estate, but no plot of land can match up to the 20-plus inches of erectile furor you’re packing. Look at you. You’re shy, humble, polite—you flop your meat down right between your toes as natural as pie. We don’t want love. What we want is a bigger, more substantial chunk to suds up in the shower and adjust during tiresome luncheons. And, if at a party, having had a bit too much to drink, we find ourselves in a closet with a coworker, we unleash the Salisbury battering ram, an instant standing ovation, which in turn leads to awe, respect, overall happiness, salvation, and peace for all.
As you must know, or maybe you don’t, the last thing on the mind of a fellow with a big thing are the little people—you can’t hide a joystick. They broadcast their own diminution. Don’t nod your head. Now is not a good time to agree with me. Of course one can hide it. They go into hiding on their own. They know things. They’re ducking for cover, committing the lower halves of our bodies to a life of chaff by squirming into the flesh bunker. To seek shelter only screams of fear, and most walking, talking, breathing human beings, like other predators, can smell that sour panic like hot sloppy lunch, and find the cowering soldier in seconds, sandwiched between thighs. What all of your colleagues are now forced to do is march straight into the boardroom, strip, jump face-first on the table, flip over, go spread-eagle, and say here’s what I am, a minute steak, a tough little fillet that means business. Act proud, know your limitations, remember names. The phrase I won’t take no for an answer only works if you mean it, if you’re willing to cut your own balls off. I tell my fellow genital mates, leave your balls on. Live your life. But I stray from the singular purpose of these thoughts: You and your thick pylon have thrown the company into chaos. The planet earth, the ground we’re accustomed to treading on, is no longer there. Instability reigns, and you know what that means. We’ll have to say goodbye to you. You’re overqualified. I know this is sudden and not an easy thing to accept; it’s hard on all of us, but let me tell you plain and simple, it’s been a lot harder on me than it has on you. And please don’t take yourself to a surgeon and get a shaft reduction. All that will do is make us look at you in disbelief. What was once a man with Guinness Book—type numbers is now half a man, a fool, someone who’ll diminish his Johnson in order to get his cool corporate job back. That won’t solve the problem. Take your personal monument that I assume never gets completely hard, that droops and flops like a groggy amphibian—I’m sorry, that was uncalled for—and go. Some of us are running out of gas on the interstate, afraid to visit a service station to refuel, because the 10-foot hoses wrapped around the pumps remind us of you. It’s costing us time and money. We’re pulling up to the full service bay, rolling down the window with our eyes closed, and shouting, fill it, to the attendant. No more 10-foot hoses. This is madness. Leave our building and never return. Your cock is not like a baby’s arm or a third leg; it’s like some other type of entity or peninsula, and we just can’t have that here. I’m terribly sorry. Don’t even think of shaking my hand, just go, and please, stop crying.