The Case of the Pilfered Penis

I was impelled to venture to the Congo when I got wind of one of the most dastardly crime waves ever perpetrated on this spinning globe of ours. It seems as though some rogue sorcerers were going about casting spells and stealing men's penises for sport and profit. What mischievous dogs! I was supremely fascinated when I read of the terror gripping the people...and who could blame them, for a penis is certainly worth holding onto. I dare say that may have been a pun!

These wizards were not content to merely steal penises, they are also accused of blackmailing their victims, demanding cash or else the penis would not be returned! This of course set my mind wandering...just where were these pilfered penises stored? Is there a giant bamboo warehouse deep in the heart of Africa filled to the brim with stolen scrotum? Or are the testes left in place when the theft occurs? Have cautious Congolese taken to hiding dye packs in their knickers, set to explode should the penis be removed?

When my travelling time machine had set down in Kinshasa, I took to interviewing local members of the populace, who were only too eager to talk to someone as dashing as me. I was wearing a plumed fedora with cordovan...well I suppose my dress can wait, let us get back to the stolen penises shall we?

It seems as though these 13 suspected sorcerers would simply touch the victim, which would cause the penis to be stolen...or, gasp, to shrink! The townspeople were in quite a state of panic at this news, and were told to be on the lookout for men in communal taxis who bore gold rings. I counseled them to beware of shaman eyeing their fancy bits, which seems more to the point to me!

Of course one has to wonder why these magical penis snatchers don't simply use their magic to conjure cash? It would seem far simpler than raiding the land for cock, and far more hygienic. I don't know if these thieving wizards wear gloves, but there seems to me no amount of booty that can be worth handling so much strange penis.

My queries were met with much consternation from the understandably panicked people, and I heard whispers that I was in fact the head sorcerer. As i was enjoying lunch I did not feel it appropriate to respond to such base accusations, nor did I pay much attention when I heard one say he could prove I was in fact the head sorcerer, by showing that I had no penis at all!

I wonder, is it true that head sorcerers are penis-less? I can't recall my professors at Cambridge or Oxford ever touching on the subject.

In any event I was pulled from my repast with force and my trousers removed before the frenzied crowd, but soon their rage turned to surprise and mirth.

"He is a victim! A sorcerer has shrunk his penis!"

A wave of horror coursed through me...could it be true?? Could some rascal of a wizard have shrunk my delectable?? I steeled myself and gazed downwards, but old Bully was there, intact and proud!

"Calm yourselves people! There is nothing to fear here! I can assure you that no miniaturization of my member has taken place, and I am wizard-touch free."

A ripple of giggles surged through the assembly, and one wag quipped, "Perhaps there was not enough to shrink."

I chortled, "You rogue you! I dare say I may not be a match in girth for you lot, but if..." I scanned the crowd for an especially delicious young morsel, "...you were to avail that young lady to me, I might give these devilish magicians something to work with."

My offer was met with great approval, and the maiden happily proffered herself on my luncheon table, right there on the street. Apparently the rumor I had taken to start, that intercourse with a plumed fedora wearing foreigner gave one complete protection from wizards, had taken root. The crowd momentarily forgot their penis snatching troubles, and our mid-afternoon copulating was met with much fanfare and joy.

Sea Weed

There I was lounging by the sea under the warm embrace of the sun, when I was approached by a nubile young female who asked if I had a light. She had long been admiring my pipe and I suppose could restrain herself no longer and felt compelled to approach, employing the classic "light" gambit.

Well I am usually not one to take such obvious bait, but her "bikini", as ladies bathing attire is now dubbed, was so revealing, that I found myself enchanted by it, and was ready to do her bidding. Thus I reached into the pocket of my dashing linen blazer, and brought my lighter forth. Her lips puckered as she held the cigarette between them. I paused.

"How old are you?" I queried.

"I'm 16!" She almost shouted her reply, seemingly worried that I would put the lighter away should she have been 15.

"I say that's marvelous! Taking up smoking at such a young age shall give you an air of grace and dignity in no time, as well as adding a delightfully husky timber to your quavering voice."

She arched her eyebrows. "Whatever dude. I smoke weed too."

"Indeed!"

"Yeah it's no big deal, I also do ecstasy. Had some last night and never did go to sleep."

"I say! You seem so spry and full of life nonetheless! You must have a remarkable constitution."

As I marvelled she took the lighter from my hand and lit her cigarette herself, and I took the opportunity to ogle her body.

"Are your parents aware of your...shall we say, hobbies?"

"They split a long time ago," she shrugged her shoulders, "my mom don't care."

Just then a pelican dove and plucked a fish from the nearby sea. "Holy shit look at that fucker!"

"That pilfering rascal! Careful he doesn't snatch your stash."

She scowled at me. "He'd better fucking not."

I smiled. There is something to be said for the empowerment of women after all. "You know, you remind me of a working wench I knew in Canterbury..."

Alas she was not listening, as she had passed out under a nearby coconut tree.

Time Machine!

Greetings, my name is Neville, and I invented the time machine. Was it a fit of whimsy in my laboratory that caused me to undertake such an endeavor? By Jove no! You see one day in Zanzibar I was taking a stick to some native merchant who wished to close his shop in order to pray, when I had not yet finished perusing his wares. Customer is always right, no matter the century you know! But in the course of throttling the blackguard I managed to splinter the branch I was using, and so I resorted to my cane. It was a really beautiful ivory handled staff, and though I was loathe to soil it against the unwashed head of the heathen, an insult must be replied to with devastating force.

Thus I found myself cracking his Mohammedan skull open under the merciless African sun, and the strain caused some beads of sweat to form on my brow. Naturally I sought to daub my head with my handkerchief, but to my horror I found it had fallen to the ground during my exertions, and the cretin I had been pummeling had the audacity to place it to his head in order to stem the gushes of blood then spurting from atop it! Well of course that handkerchief was as good as dead in my eyes, but as it had sentimental value, being not a traditional handkerchief but in fact a pair of undergarments I had pilfered from the satchel of my favorite whore the last time I found her comatose, I did not want to abandon it.

Therefore I resolved to develop a time machine, so I could travel back to the precise moment before I started beating the merchant with a stick, and properly secure the whore's panties before they could fall into his foul hands.

I say! That was some preamble, but now you have the fascinating story of how I came to invent my device. With it I can travel across time and across lands, and will be delighted to share my wisdom with you, though no doubt you are a dullard knee deep in the puddle of your own stupidity as you read this.