Horse-Cock: A Life In 27 Inches

Forward to the Revised Second Edition of Horse-c**k: A Life In 27 Inches

In recent months, some particularly vicious critics have challenged the truth of my best-selling memoir, Horse-c**k: A Life In 27 Inches. These accusations cut me deeply. Horse-c**k is a memoir, the true story of my life. Condemning it isn't just attacking my writing - it' attacking my life itself.

The New York Times has published extensive refutations of 322 of the 325 pages of Horse-c**k, citing hundreds of eyewitnesses who vehemently disagree with my interpretation of the events described. Let me just say this in my defense - I guess I remember things differently. History will judge me. History and the 43 individual lawsuits I'm currently facing.
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But there is one truly vile accusation that I simply can't ignore by burying my head in a pillow stuffed with mescaline. It' perhaps the most serious one because it challenges the foundation on which my entire life is built. The accusation is this - that I do not in fact have a 27-inch horse-c**k.

Until six months ago, I wouldn't have even dignified this spurious claim with a verbal response. I would've simply unzipped my fly and dropped my 27-inch horse-c**k onto the shoes of my accuser. Unfortunately, three events have happened recently that force me to approach these once baseless claims with more delicacy.
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It' well-known among music industry insiders that the majority of female recording artists keep a full-grown wolverine inside their vaginas at all times. This fad was started by Fiona Apple in the early 1930s, but these days a list of Grammy winners for best female vocalist is also a list of women with wolverines in their vaginas.
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Now, as a humble memoirist, unversed in the ways of glamorous musicians, I was unaware of this fact. So it never occurred to me, before inserting my horse-c**k into Ashlee Simpson' vagina backstage at this year' Golden Globes, to ask whether she'd remembered to remove her wolverine. Sadly, in her narcotic haze, she hadn't. The result being, 8 inches were bitten off my horse-c**k by the underfed beast.
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The encounter will be documented on Ashlee' next album, in the song "My Vagina, Your Abattoir".

At the time, this wasn't a problem - after all, anything above 16 inches technically qualifies as a horse-c**k, so I had a good 3 inches of leeway.

But then I got into a knife-fight with the President of Iran. You see, I was on a top-secret diplomatic mission in Tehran when my squadron was captured and tortured - mostly getting slathered with honey and pelted with wasp nests, nothing unmanageable. But to save my squadron I was forced to duel with Iran' crazed President, Mamoud Ahmadinejad.

We were both stripped nude and given butterfly knives, as is the Iranian custom. But my foe was unaware that my horse-c**k has the flexibility and strength of a prehensile tail. Feinting left, I deflected his thrust, dropped my knife and caught it in mid-air with my horse-c**k. Unfortunately, a sudden gust of desert wind threw off the knife' rotation as it dropped and my horse-c**k grabbed it by the blade instead of the handle. That unavoidable error caused 9 inches to be sliced off my horse-c**k.
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Not to worry, I still bested President Ahmadinejad by directing the geyser of blood spurting from my severed horse-c**k into his eyes, blinding him long enough to cut out his kidneys and feast on them while he writhed at my feet, as is the Iranian custom.
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But this noble duel cost me dearly - at 10 inches I no longer technically had a horse-c**k. It was more like, I don't know, a donkey-c**k.

Still, 10 inches - pretty sweet. Or at least it was, until my recent trip to space.

I learned two important things on that trip. One, if you're ever on an emergency space-walk to repair a crucial sensor damaged during a meteor storm, and a seal tears on your gorgeous astronaut assistant' air-hose, many times the only solution is to risk your own life by whipping down your space-pants and furiously ejaculating into the torn air-hose, thereby sealing it and saving her from imminent implosion.
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Two, in such an instance, always remember to pull up your space-pants before slamming the airlock door closed, because if your c**k is larger than the NASA-approved 6 inches the steel-reinforced airlock door will more than likely chop 4 inches off your formerly-horse-c**k.

Suffice it to say, lesson learned.

Well, I guess I actually learned three things - if you're going to have emergency c**k-reconstruction surgery, pay full price. No matter how big the discount, it' not worth the infection. If anyone knows what this creamy purple stuff is that I've been urinating for the past few weeks, please drop me a line care of my publisher.
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My point being, while I did in fact have an according to Hoyle horse-c**k - a borderline monster-c**k, falling just shy of the 30-inch monster-c**k cut-off point - through no fault of my own I'm now in possession of a just slightly above-average c**k.
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For many of my fans this revelation may be upsetting. But please keep in mind that at 6 inches, my c**k is still a full half-inch over the 5.5 inch national average and as such I feel the horse-cockian point of view that' defined my life hasn't changed.

I may have lost 21 inches, but I've won something far more valuable - an understanding of the common, just slightly above-average cocked man. Women unfortunately remain a mystery. A tantalizing mystery that I believe can only be solved through vaginal penetration and my own crippling fear of commitment.

By purchasing this memoir, you've seen beyond the tyranny of facts and allowed me to penetrate the moist, gaping vagina that is your mind with a rock hard 27-inch horse-c**k of partially embellished semi-truth. For that I thank you, my publisher thanks you, and the ghost of my severed horse-c**k thanks you.
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