How To Make Your Penis Bigger

 

This is one of the most sought after subjects on the Internet, so I thought I’d ask renowned humorist, Rodney Lacroix, about it. We also talked about his latest book, “Romantic As Hell.”

 

Samara: Your book was really funny. It might have been the peyote I ate, but I’m pretty sure I would have laughed anyway. How do you manage to be so funny?

Rodney: I’m an only child so I’ve had plenty of time to myself growing up. This usually meant I was either perfecting my comic timing or fondling my genitalia while staring at my Dallas Cowboys Cheerleaders poster. Or both. My upbringing was mainly just me alone in my room trying to make pictures laugh so I could get a boner, essentially.

 

Samara: I love the cave man scene. How can I get a man to cover me in pine needles, a dead sloth, and feces?

Rodney: I’m pretty sure you’d just have to ask. Guys will do anything to get laid.

 

Samara: Of the five “typical romantic” gifts, JEWELRY. That is all. It’s not even a question, just give me jewelry.

Rodney: I’m okay with giving a woman jewelry if it’s just not, like, “Oh..I’ll just get her earrings because (a) I can’t think of anything else and (b) I’m pretty sure she has ears.” I’m also okay if the jewelry she wants is a pearl necklace because I know you write about a lot of sex stuff so this answer seems to fit in with your modus operandi (which is Latin for ‘labia,’ FYI).

 

Samara: Thank you for letting men know that a vacuum cleaner is not a present. However, I DO believe that lawn equipment is a suitable gift for a man. Am I sexist? ‘Happy Father’s Day, now go do yard work!’

Rodney: There are probably guys out there who are, like, “OH MAN SHE GOT ME THE BEST WEED WHACKER FOR MY BIRTHDAY” but I am not one of those guys. I don’t enjoy yard work or cutting shit up or hunting Sasquatch so shit like that isn’t for me. I used to get power screwdrivers all the time as gifts. I currently own 37 power screwdrivers.

 

Samara: You write that men are powerless against the “bitten lip” technique. Any picture I’ve taken of myself biting my bottom lip makes me look like a stroke victim. What am I doing wrong?

Rodney: You’re supposed to bite the guy’s lip. Seriously, it’s like I have to tell you everything.

 

Samara: You tell the story of dating a girl in high school who was missing her pinky finger and you didn’t even notice.

Does Kerri have all 10 fingers? Are you SURE?

Rodney: I’m pretty sure Kerri has all ten fingers.

I’m mostly sure Kerri has all ten fingers.

Probably.

Great. Now I have to go check. Sonofabitch.

 

Samara: You were getting a couples’ massage with Kerri, and you “farted away a boner.” That’s fascinating. For the sake of science, can you please elaborate?

Rodney: I’m 47. Erections at this point are hard to come by.

I’ll give you a moment with that one.

I also have adult ADD which means anything I’m focusing on like sex, maintaining a boner, maintaining a boner during sex, making a sandwich, the plot of any single episode of Game of Thrones, etc. can be gone in a flash if my attention is dragged elsewhere. So, for me, a fart completely deflating my manhood isn’t out of the question.

Also, “Deflating My Manhood” sounds like it would be a Kenny G single.

Ah. You’ve witnessed my ADD in action right there.

 

Samara: You and Kerri honeymooned in Vegas. That story had poop in it. Lots of poop, everywhere. Just wanted you know how disgusting that was.

Rodney: I LIVED IT YOU DO NOT HAVE TO TELL ME HOW DISGUSTING IT WAS.

Omg thanks for fucking reminding me now I have to go shower OMG THE SHOWER HAD POOP IN IT TOO. I hate you right now so much, FYI.

 

Rare photo of Rodney and Kerri

Samara: Were you and Kerri in the Navy together?

Rodney: No, but [insert semen joke here].

 

Samara: The chapter where you are trying to make Kerri an elaborate gift spelling out the word “LOVE” and you’re exhausted after the first two letters, and decide to nickname her “LO” so you can just be done – that was one of my favorite parts.  I thought I’d share that with my readers.

 

Rodney: Hey, Lo

Kerri: The hell?

Rodney: I’m going to call you “Lo” from now on because I like you on the down, Lo.

Kerri: No you won’t call me that at all.

Rodney: Sometimes I wish she’d just play the hell along to make my life easier. This was not one of those times, sadly. That actually would have been a good nickname, too.

“How about getting on the down Lo.” See? Works on several levels (two..it works on two levels).

 

Samara: Kerri made you an actual book for Valentine’s Day one year. Was that really necessary? I usually just gave my husband blow jobs. Pretty much for all occasions – his birthday, New Year’s Eve, Columbus Day, the Jewish holiday Tu B’Shevat…

Maybe that’s why we’re divorced? Wait, what?

Rodney: I think Kerri felt the need to try to keep up at that point, I think. That being said, she obviously puts up with a LOT of shit as you can well imagine so I never fault her for giving me ANOTHER POWER SCREWDRIVER JESUS CHRIST ARE YOU KIDDING ME.

Wait. Back to the blowjob comment. Are you suggesting you only saved them for holidays? THAT’S why you’re divorced. If I had to wait for a holiday for every BJ I’d be Googling “National Holidays” all the time.

“Hey honeeeeyy…did you know it’s National Drink Water Day?”

[drops pants]

[farts]

[loses boner]

 

Story of my life.

 

———

Rodney loves to make jokes about how small his penis is, so he provided NO insight as to how to make your penis bigger. I searched it on Lady Google but MY GOD trust me, you don’t want me to share.

I really don’t know if he’s joking about his penis, since he’s one of the few men on the Internet who hasn’t sent me a dick pic.

You can buy Rodney’s books (and please do, so he doesn’t have to keep giving his wife handmade gifts) here:

Publisher’s Website (signed copies available from here) : http://www.rcgpublishing.com

Amazon Author Page: http://www.amazon.com/Rodney-Lacroix/e/B00ANN9ZVE

 

Follow Rodney (don’t let life get in the way of social media):

Twitter: http://www.twitter.com/moooooog35

Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/RodneyLacroixAuthor

Website: http://RodneyLacroix.com

Rodney Lacroix is just one of those guys. He’s one of those guys that make you say, “You know, I’m glad I’m not THAT guy.”

Rodney Lacroix lives in southern New Hampshire. He is the proud biological father of two amazing children and step-ological father of two stepamazing stepchildren.
He also likes to invent terms.

Rodney Lacroix has been writing about his misadventures for years. He’s done stand-up comedy, emceed charity events and has hung out with many celebrities. He is worshipped in most third-world countries and is known as “El Chupacabra.’ Perhaps you’ve heard of him.

Maybe you shouldn’t believe anything he says. DO read his books, though. He’s hysterical.

 

Do you know Rodney? Don’t you wish you did? Have you ever heard of farting away a boner?
Talk to me. I’m listening. If you buy me jewelry, that is.

Helena Says

There is no one quite like Helena Hann-Basquiat.

 

I feel lucky to count myself among her friends.

If you’ve been fortunate enough to play with her on Facebook, you no doubt have snort-laughed at her brilliant humor.

She knows everything there is to know about music.

She’s an incredible writer.

And…she’s a man.

 

Earlier this year, in a move that stunned the Internet, Helena revealed herself to be a man.

Guess what? Helena is still Helena. The man behind Helena, Ken, created and to this day, maintains, an enigmatic and unique character that I personally will never stop believing in. When I message Helena, I speak to Helena. THAT’S how brilliant of a storyteller she is. (He is.)

(Now I’m confusing myself. Whatever.)

 

Do yourself a favor. Read her book. I don’t pimp books often. I do this because I love her writing.

She’s provided us with an excerpt from her upcoming book, Memoirs of a Dilettante, Volume Two.

Give yourself a little gift today, and read it.

Then click the link, and support her campaign via Pubslush.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Helena Says

 With my return to Arcadia interrupted by a speeding ticket that turned into a Kafka-esque fiasco (only, you know, with less metamorphosis)…

You know, Helena, Kafka wrote other stories. In fact, he wrote a novel called The Trial, which is perhaps what you were referring to?

Yes, yes, you’re very clever, darlings, but who’s telling this story? That’s right, I am.

And now you’ve interrupted my train of thought.

Speaking of trains, I remember taking the train to Arcadia to visit my sister and the wee Countess, who would have been about three at the time, and was a right terror. Things were not going well for Cheryl and Ted, not because he was beating her, or because she was sleeping around, but because Arcadia was sucking the life out of them. Ted had been working for a company in Toronto that had been bought up by some giant American company that, despite promises to preserve jobs, decided to shut down the Canadian operation altogether, leaving about 3500 people out of a job. Ted was lucky that his particular skill set was required, and when he got an offer to relocate to upstate New York; an offer that came with a large bonus, well, how could he refuse? The bonus would be enough to move them, and put a down payment on a house in Arcadia, the small community only a thirty-minute drive from the city where he’d be working. Ted and Cheryl thought they were making the smart decision to live in Arcadia rather than the city – they could afford twice as much. A house that went for $200,000 in the city was a mere $95,000 in Arcadia, and there were houses for almost half that for sale in the small, idyllic town that reminded Cheryl of turn of the century post cards.

So they moved down to Arcadia, and I went to England, where I later found out that Cheryl was pregnant, and that my parents had moved down to Arcadia to be close to Cheryl and Ted and the newly born Penelope.

But Cheryl was not made for small town living.

“We’ve made no friends,” she cried to me on the phone one night. “And Mum and Dad are here all the time! It’s like they never moved out!”

Our parents had moved down to Arcadia – I’ve told you that much – but what I didn’t tell you was that they moved down and in with my sister and her husband. It would be nearly eighteen months of hell for Cheryl and Ted. I finally had to go down, find them a place and make them move out. Cheryl was just too… nice to be confrontational.

“I can’t get a job – not anything that would make enough money to be worthwhile – I’d have to take Penny to daycare in the city, and then we’d need another car, and… and Ted’s gone all the time, and when he’s here, we fight all the time, and Penny just… fucking cries all the time.”

I gasped. Cheryl never swore. Not if her hair was on fire.

“Oh Helena,” she sobbed, “I hate it here. I want to come home. I want subways and cafes and pubs and traffic. I want noise and industry and people, no matter how rude. I want to see unfamiliar faces. You have no idea how quickly you run out of faces here! I see the same ten people every fucking day.”

“Hey,” I laughed, “easy, sailor! Don’t hurt yourself. You gotta pace yourself with that kind of language.”

Cheryl laughed back. “I miss you, Helena.”

“Oh, you’re just sayin’ that ‘cause you’re drunk,” I teased. Cheryl wasn’t one to get drunk. “If I were there you’d be sick to death of me. Remember when I came back from England? You couldn’t wait to be rid of me.”

“Come down for a visit, will you? Please?” Cheryl pleaded.

“You don’t have to beg, Cheryl,” I laughed. “Of course I will. You, Brooke and me will go out. We’ll leave Penny with Mum, and the three of us will go into the city, and…”

Cheryl coughed.

“What?” I asked. Cheryl wasn’t the type to interrupt you by talking over you, but if she wanted to stop you, she’d cough.

“Brooke won’t be allowed to go,” Cheryl said awkwardly.

“Allowed?” I asked. “What do you mean allowed?”

“That bastard she’s married to – it’s like he keeps her a prisoner. Ever since the last time you were here and we went out for drinks, I haven’t seen her. I mean, I’ve seen her, but not, you know, socially.”

“I remember that night,” I said. “That guy was in there shooting his mouth off about Home Depot and shit, right?”

“That was that girl’s dad, you know,” Cheryl said solemnly. “Amy LeFevre.”

Cheryl had called me the day they found the old man at the bottom of his basement stairs to tell me all about it. At first I hadn’t even remembered Amy at all – I’d only seen her around a few times, riding her bike around town in short cut off shorts and Doc Martens, bruises all up and down her legs like leopard spots.

“I think he hits her,” Cheryl said, breaking the silence that followed Amy LeFevre’s name.

I knew immediately what was going through Cheryl’s head, because it was going through mine as well. People saw Amy LeFevre every day, covered with bruises and angry all the time, and they did nothing about it. If Cheryl thought that Brooke was getting hit by her husband and did nothing about it, she couldn’t live with herself.

“Have you tried talking to her about it?” I asked.

“I tried,” Cheryl sighed. “But she made excuses, or she was busy, and then eventually she got mad at me and told me to mind my own business. I haven’t even talked to her in months. I see her around, but she usually tries to avoid me, or just smiles and nods, you know.”

I did know. I spent most of my high school years avoiding people’s gazes or smiling and nodding. I made my own share of excuses for bruises, and cried all the time. People thought that I was crazy, or that I was upset about some boy. I sat at the back of the bus, crying into my jacket, trying not to draw attention to myself, and even succeeding once in a while. Listening to Lou Reed’s Berlin and crying to the lyrics of Caroline Says II : Caroline says, as she gets up off the floor, ‘You can hit me all that you want to but I don’t love you anymore’. [1] It got to the point that Helena crying was no longer a matter of interest. I kept my secrets, not knowing that I shouldn’t have had to. I was angry all the time, and I scared my teachers with the horrible stories and poems that I wrote. And all the while, what I really wanted was for someone to save me. But no one did.

I should have said more to Amy. I should have done something. Now Cheryl needed me, and Brooke might be in trouble. I had to go. I had to save someone, even if it was only myself.

And so I ended up on a train bound for Arcadia.

[1] I wrote this chapter shortly after Lou Reed died, and it got me thinking about when I’d first fallen in love with his music. Was it Transformer, with its David Bowie glam production, or was it Berlin? I think I flirted with Lou Reed with The Velvet Underground and Transformer, but I really fell in love with him with Berlin.

———–

If you want to read more, BECOME A FAN at PUBSLUSH and pre-order Memoirs of a Dilettante Volume Two and Penelope, Countess of Arcadia

  

 

The enigmatic Helena Hann-Basquiat dabbles in whatever she can get her hands into just to say that she has.

Some people attribute the invention of the Ampersand to her, but she has never made that claim herself.

Last year, she published Memoirs of a Dilettante Volume One, and is about to release Volume Two, along with a Shakespearean style tragi-comedy, entitled Penelope, Countess of Arcadia.

Helena writes strange, dark fiction under the name Jessica B. Bell. VISCERA, a collection of strange tales, will be published by Sirens Call Publications later this year. Find more of her writing at http://www.helenahb.com or and http://www.whoisjessica.com Connect with her via Twitter @HHBasquiat , and keep up with her ever growing body of work at GOODREADS, or visit her AMAZON PAGE