The Fourth Judge on Happiness, His Penis, and Growing a Beard

At work I participate in weekly departmental meetings where I must discuss the progress I have made on the projects I am responsible for. Every so often one of these meetings gets pushed back a day, and when that happens I’m as happy as a human being can possibly be. I don’t care if you’ve just had your first child, hit the winning free throw in game 7 of the NBA championship while somehow simultaneously getting a two-woman blowjob, or polished off a second helping of astoundingly delicious brisket made by your orthodox Jewish neighbors who have invited you over for Shabbat dinner completely out of the blue after never having spoken to you for the first two years you’ve lived in your apartment. You will only be as happy as I am the moment I find out my weekly meeting has been pushed back, and not one bit more.

“You mean I have a full 24 hours to come up with a bullshit excuse for why I haven’t even looked at 85% of my projects? DRINKS ARE ON ME TONIGHT!”[[MORE]]

I’d say it’s the adult equivalent of a snow day, but children don’t truly understand happiness. You need to really SUFFER to understand happiness, and as a 29-year-old white man living in America I’ve done plenty of suffering. Do you have any idea what it’s like to wait two whole days for your weed guy to get back into town?

I desperately want to get woken up by a blowjob before I die. I think it’s because someone would have to like my penis enough to want to put it in her mouth for its own sake. It wouldn’t matter that it was attached to me because I’d be asleep, which is just as good as being dead, only not nearly as creepy. The woman would be sucking my penis without context. No response from me except more penis.

I mean, also, how awesome would it be to be woken up by someone sucking your dick? Who wouldn’t want that experience? You’re the freak if the thought’s never crossed your mind.

I don’t think everyone is aware of this, but men experience something I like to refer to as “good dick days.” Some days (and sometimes it even changes by the hour) our cocks feel remarkably weighty. Full of life, vigor, and probably some sort of titanium alloy.  I’m not talking about getting a bunch of boners, obviously. I’m talking about your regular, flaccid penis feeling mightier than usual.

If you’re a man and you don’t know what I’m talking about I feel sorry for you. When you’re having a good dick day you walk a little taller, your voice is a little deeper, and the cries of the homeless are just a little sweeter.

It’s something that every human should experience, which makes me wonder, is there a female equivalent? Do your boobies sometimes feel more full and voluptuous than usual? The obvious answer is a “good hair day” but that’s sexist and ignorant. Men have hair too, and sometimes it looks like shit.

So what is it ladies? What’s your version of the “good dick day?” Please leave your thoughts in the bustling comments section at the end of this post.

Most mornings, when I’m waiting for the subway, I see a late-20s, hipstery looking white dude holding a coffee mug. Not a thermos. Not a cup with a lid. A mug. A big, open mug full of piping hot liquid (I can see the steam). This moron then gets on the subway with his cup o’ surefire lawsuit.

I’ve never seen what happens after that – I avoid getting on a car with him at all costs – but I can only assume he proceeds to terrorize everyone in the car with his white hot cup of death. How does that coffee not melt at least one person’s face off a day? There are no seats to be had at my stop in the morning, so he’s got to stand over somebody if he wants to hold onto something while he rides. With all the herking, jerking (non-sexual), and bustling that goes on in the subway, he’d have to be a goddamn magician to keep from spilling anything.

Who the fuck does this guy think he is? I say we round his entire family up and drive them into the Gowanus Canal with pitchforks and torches while we blast The Piano Man on a boom box to confuse the shit out of them/give them the indecent deaths they deserve.

I can’t grow a beard. I can only grow a cheap, spotty, embarrassing imitation of a beard that looks like it was glued on by a drunken kindergartner in the dark. It’s a sore spot for me, for a variety of reasons. I once asked a girlfriend if she liked beards and she told me she loved them. She didn’t know I couldn’t grow one, and told me she didn’t care that I couldn’t, but it broke my heart. I would never be able to provide the furry face she so obviously desired, which made me feel like less of a man.

The weird thing about this diseased, mangy neck hammock is that it gets a little bit thicker every year. A legit 2% thicker. It’s like my facial hair is governed by a hormone faucet that was halfway turned on in 1996 by some dude who happened to be passing through, never to return again.

The silver lining is that at this rate I might be able to grow a full beard by the time I’m 78 years old. Sometimes I wonder if it’s some sort of countdown clock to my death and the second I get total facial coverage I’ll drop dead. I’d be okay with that, by the way. It has all the makings of a pretty cool fable. Not sure what the moral would be, but there’s a dude who takes 78 years to grow a beard in it. That’s a legit 22% of an interesting story.