I recently acquired a motorcycle. For those of you unfamiliar with motorcycles, they are manliness given wheels. To ride a motorcycle is to ride masculinity itself—no homo/a little bit of homo, as the bros say. And let me be the first to tell you that when you mount masculinity itself, scissoring its thrumming engine between your thighs, it creates, shall we say, tingles and jingles in your downstairs. The scientific nomenclature for what occurs is called Motorcycle Wood, the cousin of the more familiar and mainstream Morning Wood. Needless to say, when you finish a ride of masculinity itself you must tarry a bit, twiddling your thumbs, straddling your machine, and waiting until the—ahem—firewood in your pants embers out or, in other words, the Sycamore you’re smuggling is timbered by a lumberjack or, if you’re lucky enough, another jack entirely. You see what I did there?
Now, for those of you unfamiliar with untimely bulges, let me tell you: It is the leading cause of Hunchback-of-Notre-Dame syndrome around the world. If you see a fella hunching his otherwise straight back, giving some sports-related excuse for the bend, know that he has a bulge that is probably largely due to either you or the intense vibrations of city buses. Consider this my PSA of the week: Boners happen; don’t make it weird, people.