The facts don’t lie: women have been chopping
men’s members since the first stone tools got sharp
enough. Statistical correlations
exist tween philandering and such chopping.
Take Thailand. The practice is so common
surgeons sport killer re-attachment skills.
So women go to lengths. One took a bus
to a distant province with it in her
purse. Arriving, she buried it. One flash
fried it in her wok while he slept off his
bath of gin, then fed it to the mongrel
dogs of her back alley. In another
famous case, one angry newlywed
tied it tight to a helium balloon
and watched it float away from her Chang Mai
home, north, toward the Golden Triangle.
Touché. Such Bobbitry should no court try.
Darwin’s got jurisdiction. Men wore toupees
before women wore lipstick. Women’s thighs
are on average two inches thicker than men’s—
en garde. Wedding comes from a root meaning
to challenge in combat. Husbands are not
pet fish, which, when all looks bleakly cloudy,
may be flushed down memory’s toilet or dumped
in a small jar and placed in the freezer,
claiming heaven in a short hour. No.
Pet dogs, maybe. Little lost dogies weaned
too early, range-beaten orphans crying
for mamas to give them a suck, big dogs
in the manger, hot dogs, dog-and-pony
dates who soon face endless dog days in her
doghouse: leftover of the love she used
to have, take him home in a doggy bag.