The Kübler-Ross Model for Morningwood
As with any tragedy, when you awake pre-dawn there is a bit of disbelief. You look down and you see nothing, yet as you uncover yourself from the blankets; Low and behold! You have unsheathed yourself into the brisk morning. This of course is a bit of problem in any living situation, so you go to on to convince yourself that it isn't that bad.
Mr. Jordan has been in Denial for about forty five minutes now
Often times in denial you make rash, and unintelligent decisions, such as: going to the bathroom. You do not remember the last time you tried to piss while you were in transformer mode, but you just remember that it wasn't pleasent. You go the bathroom, pull down your underwear and realize you have three options:
The first option is the most reasonable, "I have great aim!" You think to yourself, unwilling to admit that you have never tried this in your 6x6 bathroom. You stand in the bathtub, aiming at the toilet when you realize you will have to move slowly closer as the stream dies down. This is not acceptable, as you are a man and want to move as little as possible.
The second option, is the next one. You open the window and look outside, making sure there is no one there, making sure there are no animals or electrical wires that could potentially make the situation a much more volatile one. You stick yourself outside much like dangling a bait worm for hungry Vireo birds. You seem them eyeing your manhood, and you pull yourself inside. "That was a close one." You think.
Finally you sit on the toilet, defeated, fully aware of what has happened and you painfully put your boner under the seat of the toilet, like a catapult being readied before launch. It is awful and while you pee it stings. You tell yourself, it isn't that bad. It could be worse. You tell yourself that no one will notice anything, especially if you use the elastic part of your underwear to pin it to your belly. You often forget that through the stained, wash worn t-shirt you wear to bed, you can see everything, your nipples, your hairy belly and everything resting against it. So when you get your bowl of cereal in the morning and everyone in your house (family or room mates) is looking at your caboodle like it's on fire, you just keep telling yourself that..."it isn't that noticable."
After the entire toilet bowl incident you feel an overwhelming sense of betrayal, primal rage that has been building inside of you since fifteen minutes ago. You look down at your still rock hard erection, and you begin to curse it, and although you found Shakespeare boring in highschool, it is now you realize the eloquence of such language.
"Why hast thou forsaken me, Raging Boner?! Why hast thou damned me?!"
Kind of like this, but with boners.
It is in this moment of anger, that you decide in unintelligent blood lust that it needs to go. Quickly you jump online, searching for the most practical way to remove your penis, or at least that part of it that wakes you up in the morning. You do not find anything of use, but typing in "Bye Bye Penis" into google's image search has not only caused your computer to question your sexuality, but disturbed you far beyond any other google image search has ever done. You leave your room, angry, upset, slightly crazy from the pictures you've seen, but most importantly you're still rockin' a boner.
"Stop fucking calling me! I have a god damn boner!!"
It is after the initial denial and subsequent anger that you begin to bargain with yourself, in an attempt to quell the beast inside you. You take a seat, quietly in your room on your bed or a chair and look down to your little tiny fella. He is presistant, and will not let up. You do not want to jerk off this early, and you are stubborn, you will not be controlled by this madman. Yet, you are defeated, you can no only go on without asking it to stop.
"Please, just go away. I have an interview this morning, I have friends coming over. I'll get us laid tomorrow night I promise, just leave me alone today. Please, I'm begging you, let me have my life back." You say quietly to yourself. It is in this moment that you wait for a response, yet nothing. Nothing happens. You sit up, realizing you just spoke aloud to your penis, and for awhile you resort back to stage number two.
Your boner does not have trade-in value.
In desperation, you start thinking of things to force yourself to another place. A place where boners are not welcome, a place where if you had a boner you would be 'totally queer' and 'probably a retard.' You begin thinking of your childhood baseball league, you were a shortstop for the Kettering Wildcats. You think back to when you would stand in the large green field, waiting for a fly ball so you could be the star of that inning. You loved helping your team win, you liked to show off to little Jessica Gardner. She would always attend the games, and you would always do your best to impress her. It is during this flashback you remember that in the seventh grade Jessican Gardner gave you a handjob behind a dumpster. This effectively does not help your situation.
You begin to think of your grandma, she is eighty-three years old. Jewish Grandma Carol came from Poland during World War II as a child. In an instant you think you have victory, old women and the holocaust; a boner simply can not survive in these conditions. It is here where you have under estimated the resilence of a boner, much the struggling Jews in Auschwitz, or the battling men on Normandy, this small underdog won't give up. He simply will not be outdone, and as if he were controlling it with his mind. A picture of hardcore pornography pops up on your computer, it is from the overwhelming amount of spyware you have. You curse outloud and return to stage two.
What you wish your penis would do.
This is you. You have given up, you have lost. You have no other alternatives but to grief. No foresight in the future allows you any hope. You lay in your bed, completely motionless and 'totally pitching a tent.' Anyone that would walk in right now would see what it is going on in your pants, and simply not understand the turmoil that you've been going through. You have no escape. You contemplate suicide.
Again, like this but with a boner.
You sit silently in your room, holding a bottle of bleach. You have never thought about killing yourself, but you see no alternative. "This is never going away, I will have this boner for the rest of my life. I've been dealing with this thing for thirty-five minutes. I can't go on anymore. This is no way to live." You open the bottle of bleach, and take a quick sniff of the liquid inside. It is tart and ill-smelling, you do no look forward to ingesting this, yet you do look forward at the release, the release of life. A life that you have asked nothing of, you have been a good person. You got good grades in school, you never stole or killed anyone and you treated all old people with insincere respect. What else could have live wanted from you? You think these things over, as you coddle the bottle of bleach. It is a name brand, you wouldn't feel right going out on a off brand bleaching agent, you feel, "That is a poor man's way out, I want to leave this world in style." You do not add 'and a boner' at the end, because it is a hard subject to grasp at this point in your life. You lift the bottle to your mouth, and are ready to consume your poison.
T-shirts are the easiest way to mock a suicide attempt.
"Hey, where the fuck is the bleach!!" Your room mate yells from downstairs. You are a nice person, you do not have the balls (you do have the boner) to have them walk in on you, dead and with an erection. You set the bleach down and you cry. You cry until lunch.
You have made it! You, the young man from (insert city and state) have forged and conquered the long journey of boner-induced trauma. You are okay that you have this boner, you are okay that hasn't gone away and you are okay with the possible fact that it may never leave you. You have bested the likes of, Martin Sigfried, who had a boner for 87 hours. You quelled yours quicker and faster. You simply mourn the loss of many men before you, who after having a boner for so long ended up swallowing bleach. You think to yourself, "So many wasted lives."
Sort of like this but with dead boners.
In your victory you put on your tightest pair of jeans, constricting that 'little motherfucker' to his rightly deserved place. You now feel pride and a new sense of being. You are no longer bound by the sexual chains that once held you. You do not have to pleasure yourself anymore, you have bested the most primal of all urges. You stride downstairs, and eat a hearty lunch. It has been a mere hour and a half, the longest erection you've ever had. You are hungry, and like a fierce warrior you consume nurition from a "Stouffers Lasanga With Meat & Sauce." You eat all six pounds.
A meal fit only for a king, or at least a small principled governor.
You no longer feel as through you are trying to shove a copy of Wild Things Starring Kevin Bacon through a ripe watermelon. You are at ease, you are calm and you are happy.
In celebration, you masturbate.