Missing Penis!


My Penis had vanished!


I looked in all the usual places: Behind the couch, under the couch, down the couch. Nothing. So after three worrying days I went to the police station to fill out a missing penis report. The desk sergeant asked if I had a photograph of my penis.

‘No,’ I said feeling embarrassed for not having one.

He said it was common and arranged for a police artist to do a sketch.

The police sketch artist’s room was in the cellar. She was young and shapely with auburn hair and a band of freckles across her cheeks and nose. ‘So tell me about your penis,’ she said while sharpening her pencil.

A week later I was eating breakfast alone at home when I saw the sketch of my penis on the back of a milk carton. It looked magnificent: Long and thick with veins like gym ropes. As I finished my last spoonful of cereal my doorbell rang, and when I opened up I was greeted by every woman in the world; all insistent on helping me find my penis. After getting dressed into a woollen pullover and some comfortable trousers, we linked hands scoured the earth for seven days like police looking for murder clues.

We did not find my penis.

Several weeks later the police came to my house and showed me a photograph of something that vaguely resembled a penis.

‘It’s been stripped down for parts and what was left was set on fire,’ the policewoman said. She looked me up and down. ‘Is this your penis?’

‘I think so,’ I said.

Her look said she wanted more.

‘Yes it is,’ I said. ‘That is my penis.’

She smiled and unclipped her handcuffs. ’In which case you are under arrest.’

‘Under arrest! On what charge?’

‘For lying to a police artist!’


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