Dear Mesdames and Sirs Spamalot,
Thank you for your continued attention to the state of my “man whip.” I feel compelled to inform you that I am not in possession of the said tool of sadism, born as I was with alternate anatomy, known in layman and -woman’s terms as a hooha.
I regret I will be unable to “satisfy her wildest fantasies all night long” as my French-bearded bed-buddy may be a tad resistant to undertaking a sex change operation for your commercial benefit.
Yes, my testosterone is flagging. I bloody hope so. The last thing I need is another wax appointment. It would take away from the precious time I spend trashing your valuable messages.
When I grow a ding-dong and need a shot in the ….err….arm, I assure you your esteemed company shall be the third to know. The first two, of course, will be the morgue and my lawyer. In that order.
Good luck with your noble campaign. I apologize I am inadequately equipped to stand up in a show of support.
Yours ovulatingly,
OJ
Vox populi