Nobolongo

Dear Dreary,

A childhood family holiday on safari to the Nakanaka national park in Kenya had a profound effect on me.

I grew up with a fascination of everything African. Not just the animals, but the whole raft of differing cultures and customs. I was mesmerised by it all, even to the point where my private life suffered.

I learnt how many tribes would wear ornate jewellery in order to flaunt their wealth, often extending body-parts such as necks and earlobes in the process.

Having recently reached the age of thirty and never having had a girlfriend, let alone any sort of sexual experience, I began to wonder what I could do to emphasise my rather inadequate appendage, and so attract the opposite sex.

My mind wandered back to an encounter I had with the chief of the Nobolongo tribe, deep in the bush. He was elected chief as he had managed to stretch his black leathery dinky with a series of weights. He assured me at the time that it was well worth the pain.

As a result, I hit upon what I thought to be a fool-proof idea. Under a local anaesthetic, a plastic surgeon friend of mine sewed a series of small metal discs around the inside of my foreskin. Yes, it hurt like hell for a few days, but I soon mastered the art of peeing without discomfort and I moved on to the next part of my plan.

I installed the strongest industrial magnets I could buy in the insides of my left shoe. Then, over the course of the next few weeks, I gradually used a series of straps, sticking plasters, and duck tape to extend my willy down towards my foot. I became accustomed to the initial throbbing, and, after a while, even began to enjoy it.

These days, I find I can mange without the straps, and my eager member grows and swells all too willingly towards my foot. The beast, as I now call it, measures a good eighteen inches when stimulated, and I could have a different girl every night of the week.

And so, I hear you ask, where is the problem?

Well, there has been a strange development which seems to be related to magnetic fields. I now find that whenever I head in or face a southerly direction, I cannot become aroused however hard I try. Yet, the moment I turn to face north, the beast is proudly out in front of me like a rampant tent pole, and all attempts to discourage it are a complete waste of time. Not only that, the distress I suffer from the tension of a cheese-string at near breaking point is immense. Its like a taught violin string being repeatedly plucked.

Please help. I have looked everywhere for trousers with a front gusset, but without success. Please give me some hope to hang my hat on.

Yours in pain,

Dick Smart, Flagstick, Upper Tipperary.

Dear Dick.
What a predicament. I bet you don’t know if you’re coming or going.
You’re obviously the kind of bloke who knows what he wants and will go to any lengths (18 inches in your case) to get them. It shows a certain grit and determination, seldom seen since Sir Walter Raleigh invented the Chopper.
It would be a terrible waste if you were to let it all get on top of you and throw in the towel as it were.
Don’t take the easy route South. Turn around ‘Dick’ Whittington and ‘head’ North!
There are so many ways to promote your pecker to its’ full advantage.
You could help save lives by joining a mountain rescue team. A human compass! Simply point North and you’ll have saved every weary rambler that ever got stuck up a crag!
With the love of Africa so close to your heart you could always consider giving them something back as a thank you. You could act as a temporary pontoon bridge. Preside over limbo dancing competitions, ‘raising the bar’ at your own discretion. Perhaps even act as a security gate at a checkpoint somewhere with a little HALT sign draped over the old chap!
You see Dick, there’s more to it than meets the eye!
Carry On Dick and stiff upper......er, lip!
Dreary.