When I was in college a lot of students omitted the cock from their figure drawings.  Some even didn’t draw nipples on the female models, which is silly since it’s such a good indicator of the position of the ribcage.  I don’t know exactly why they wouldn’t draw the cock.  Insecurity of some sort perhaps?  Perhaps they thought people would think they were gay if they saw charcoal drawings of cock in their newsprint pads.  Or perceived as straight in the case of the females.

A cock is far more obvious in it’s absence.  Therefore kids, in your drawings from now on be sure to include a cock if it is appropriate.  Now, it doesn’t have to be fully rendered.  It’s not terribly important to the overall gesture of the figure.  It’s position is determined mostly by gravity, and occasionally bloodflow.  No need to make it the focal point.  Unless it is.

So don’t be afraid to draw those cocks.  Stick a thumb in the eye of your puritan parents and give them a framed drawing of a naked dude for Christmas.

This post is dedicated to one of the great cock drawers of our time, Leslie Pierce.

Some people think that softball is a game.  I think it’s a game for men.  And women apparently, since I’m playing on a coed league.  But both the men and women are made of steel, and eat lukewarm lava.  This means we’re incredibly tough. The women certainly are as tough as the men. They are distinguishable only be their gravitating towards the catcher’s mitt as opposed to the softball bats.

I was playing left field. It was a Texan night. Hot and dry with the scent of far-off death.  The manaical howling of coyotes in the wilderness outside the ballpark promised to make the ride home interesting.  But this was not my concern, I was in the midst of the game.

It was the first inning, there was one out.  Their first batter had grounded out to our third baseman.  He was flogged upon returning to the dugout.  Their second batter came to the plate.  He was a large mute.  6′4 and of a girth to suggest he had recently uprooted himself from a redwood forest.  He had once known speach, but after committing a field error he had removed his own tongue in a formal apology to his team.

On the first pitch he hit a line drive down the left field line. It streaked through the air like a tracer round from a 5o caliber weapon mounted to a Blackhawk helicopter into the hull of a Somali pirate ship. I was on it. I ran at full speed toward where my battle-honed intuition told me it would land. I had estimated correctly. I had to slide to catch it, as it was merely a foot from the ground. As my leg slid across the burning Texas earth, I felt the heated rock lacerating my flesh as my entire 240 pound weight worked to scrape my skin into the ground. I made the catch. It was glorious. The other team could tell from my valor that my team was made of something stronger than they were used to facing. Their moral was destroyed and we won handily. Their team captain committed ritual suicide after the game.