I get up this morning to discover the first thing in my inbox is a link to Joe Rogan. You would think I’d know better by now, but I…clicked…on it, and now…
I can’t get it out of my head. Joe Rogan’s penis — it’s just there, everywhere he goes, separated from our eyes and our hands by nothing but a few thin layers of fabric, and a zipper. A zipper! Easy access, just a little gentle tug, and it comes down — it’s as if he’s begging everyone to expose his penis. He may try to tell you with his mouth that he doesn’t want to be cock-punched, but his pants say otherwise. If he really didn’t, he wouldn’t be walking around in that thin t-shirt, those jeans that don’t obscure the delicate bulge of his genitalia, his legs that scissor back and forth as he walks, highlighting his crotch.
How weird is it that he wears those pants that fit snugly and have an instant access door to his most private parts? Maybe if he wore a kilt it would drape and obscure his area, rather than emphasizing it.



