As much as everyone except lesbians and the asexual love wieners, there's something to be said for misplaced pride, and when it comes to something like the Small Penis Competition, maybe you need to keep your jorts zipped up and leave to speculation whether your little Tom Thumb is truly the tiniest dingle in the berry patch.

The competition for the shrimpiest shlong takes place at the King's County Bar in Brooklyn, where the winner gets $200 and the knowledge that having a little dick is OK. And arguably having a tiny penis is OK, unless you literally can't use it for its intended purpose and/or you're the sort of guy who's concerned with being able to sexually fulfill a partner, which is going to be more difficult with a dink that looks like a kidney bean in a bird's nest.

Have you heard of air sex? It's like air guitar, only more deplorable to a degree that Good Will Hunting couldn't puzzle out on a hundred blackboards. Basically you emulate sex, in front of a crowd, by yourself.

You may be thinking that, like air guitar, there's some skill involved here. First, no. There's no skill involved in air guitar. There's skill in real guitar. Please play real guitar. The moment you remove a real thing from play, you're literally doing nothing, and that can't, by definition, involve skill. Second, there's less skill in air sex, because why the f**k is this a thing? Do you know what air humping is? It's 75 percent of the descent into hobo madness. If you drink some aftershave and wear the same pants for a month, your air humping becomes known as "why we don't walk down the alley behind Walmart."

Winning an air sex competition implies that you can get your hump on all by yourself better than anyone in the room. Hang your head in shame, you onanistic miscreant. You know who can do themselves like champs? Every teenager ever. This isn't a skill, or an art, or a service. It's the physical manifestation of a drunkard hitting rock bottom, rendered in tragic 3D reality by the depraved mind of someone who thought thrusting desperately at the judgmental eyes of a crowd of people who are going to go home to someone who can hug them is anything other than a sign of your own personal mental and emotional apocalypse. When you hump the air, your soul sits on the sidelines and punches itself in the reproductive organs because it still has the decency to do so, even if you don't.

The world is lousy with eating competitions. Lousy! I engage in them frequently myself. I'll just depants late at night and sit nude in a room I have heated to 95 degrees and stare at a massive plate of pastries and dare myself to eat them. Go on, Felix, eat them. Eat them! Grandma's chubby little man loves Danish, doesn't he?

I take one bite and weep until the heat knocks me unconscious. It's my little bugaboo.

While most eating competitions make some sort of sense, there's got to be some self-loathing bullshit reason behind the stinging nettle eating competition, because winning this means you have to inflict more senseless pain on yourself than the other guy did. Call me crazy, but that sounds kind of stupid.

As you may have guessed from the name, stinging nettles are a kind of nettle that stings. It's kind of like eating poison ivy, only the plants grow a lot bigger, and apparently, if you take the stinging parts away, you can make a delightfully bland tea out of them.

This particular competition comes from England, where things like soccer and Oasis were also born, so everything needs to be looked at with a critical eye. My research tells me one dude claimed he grew the biggest nettles in town and would eat them if someone proved him wrong. Yadda yadda yadda, today there's an annual competition where people eat them, enjoying god-awful mouth and throat pain, blackened tongue and lips, and the curious sensation of nettles fermenting in your gut, which apparently makes an amusing sound to accompany the pain you feel from eating a plant covered in thousands of tiny knives that inject you with itchy chemicals.

I was so positive this wasn't a real thing that when I found out that it is not only real, but popular enough to have its own Wikipedia page, I had to stop writing this and fix myself a Tom Collins, because this sort of s**t requires a dour, old-timey drink to get through.

Ferret legging, also known as "ferret-down-trousers," also known as "put-'em down," also known as "Don't these names sound like bullshit?" is the act of filling one's pants with ferrets. The animals. Competitively.

Naturally, simply having a rodent in your pants isn't much of a competition on its own, so you need to get some friends with rodents in their pants, and then, once you're all ferreted up, you wait. This is the essence of the competition. Who can manage a pantsload of ferrets the longest.

If you're not particularly well-acquainted with ferrets, the most significant detail to appreciate about them right now is that they have mouths full of razor-like teeth, which they use to help them eat things like eggs, small birds and rodents, and your testicles, if you have a ferret in your pants. And even domesticated ones love to bite.

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Imma eat cho balls!

The current world record for ferret legging is just over five and a half hours. This can't be pleasant for you, as the person who, make no mistake, can and will be bitten, or the ferret that has to put up with being jammed in the pants of the kind of person who would jam a ferret in their pants. Because, let's be honest, there are probably a lot of people in the world whose pants you'd enjoy being trapped in, but the sort of person who puts ferrets in their pants is not one of those people. I'd put good money on these guys all producing an odor that even the most uncouth of ferrets would find objectionable.

Breaking the world record for ferret-legging today means that not only do you need to sustain a number of serious bites from a tiny monster mouth, but you'll also be regarded by most people as "that guy who puts rodents in his pants." Know who else has that reputation? Richard Gere, and he's been saddled with that rumor for like 20 years. Good luck getting rid of yours if you also end up breaking a world record while doing it.

Like some of the YouTube challenges I tried not too long ago, the laxative challenge is something made up by morons in an attempt to assist them in recognizing who their moron king should be so that it's easier to organize themselves when they go out to eat paint chips or roll down hills in porta-potties.

Laxatives, as you know, are medications designed to force you to poop. They force it. Like every creature on Earth with a butthole already has a standard poop schedule, but laxatives show up and say, "f**k that, you are to poop now! And again in 10 minutes. And 20 minutes after that!" The challenge comes in as you try to fight with the laxative on the spiritual plane, life force against life force, where you try not to poop and the laxative laughs and twists your jejunum into knots until you do.

The winner of the laxative challenge is the person who, among all their friends, resists the need to poop the longest. That's what winning is -- a gut churning, likely auditory discomfort of awfulness as a chemical reaction in your stomach forces whatever solids are inside you to shuffle on down your intestine like a dance troupe and wait at the stage door to escape like rats from a sinking ship.

Logic dictates that no one wins a laxative challenge because the end result is forced shitting. That should only be a win in a game of revenge or really perverse torture techniques. It should never be a win for something you've done to yourself, and if it is, maybe you need to call a psychologist when you get off the toilet.

I don't want to be a braggart, but I can hold the sausage hostage like a champ over here, and I can do it while watching TV, while listening to music, while dancing, you name it. But even I, with my myriad skills in this field, would not partake in a contest to determine who did it best, because I feel like every entrant is immediately somehow a loser. Think about it: Say you enter the masturbation contest, you're on a stage with 15 other people, some sad-eyed man in an ill-fighting suit whose family disowned him years ago fires a starting pistol, and then you're off? You'll start by beating the sad little thug against your own leg, maybe wringing its neck a bit, and then what? If you get off first, what does that even mean about you?

The first guy who blows it during a masturbation competition is probably insane. Because really, how can you not hold off? You're the one in charge. This implies you wanted to get off, you wanted to feel the sting of humiliation with your little dingle in your hand in front of a crowd, and hey, if that's your thing, good for you, but also bad for you. Bad! You just lost.

The guy who goes second is arguably even lamer than the guy who went first, because we all suspect the guy who came first did so on purpose to fulfill some exhibitionist thrill. The guy who did it second was just a loser.

Now all the way at the end of the competition (and I read some dude went for 10 hours and change doing this), the guy who wins is the guy who could maintain a boner but still not get off for hours upon hours while a crowd of the truly mad looked on, because you know only insane people are sticking around for 10 hours of masturbation. All this man proves to the world is that chafing is not something he's particularly worried about and, if you have sex with this person, you'll remember it thanks to the fire in your crotch that wakes you up some hours later.