To sum up, whatever it took to wish oneself dead, the Ken Doll just didn’t have it in him.
Arnold (jovially, bellied up to the adjacent urinal, brazenly unzipping): “Hey, there, Mr. Detweiler.”
Me (grimly trying to piss, my d**k a needle; my pee a camel): “Hello, Arnold.”
Arnold (unleashing The Flood): “How’s it going?”
Me (nodding, grimacing, struggling): “Fine, just fine.”
My rival in micturition stood a good three inches taller than me. His other dimensions I chose to ignore. As Arnold released a stream to rival Angel Falls, I stood beside him, my cheeks burning, blocked as the tomb of the Holy Sepulcher, put in mind of the following doggerel:
There once was a man from Stanbul
Who soliloquized thus to his tool:
First you robbed me of wealth / then you took all my health
And now
