My penis is so Brobdingnagian that Captain Ahab, were he not a fictional character, would surely stand upon his mast's crow's nest and lob harpoons at me. If the teeming masses were to behold my leviathan genitals in their unclothed glory, surely they would riot and overthrow their paltry governments in favor of being ruled by my phallus. Connoisseurs have challenged the worlds most talented sommeliers to determine the perfect vintage to compliment my robust manhood. My todger is so mammoth in size that if were measured in words, my member could fill every page of the unabridged Les Miserables and still have enough left over for one of Victor Hugo's essays. Margaret Meade noted the anthropological necessity of my humongous tube-steak and broadly suggested in her works that several cultures could benefit from worshiping it. Indeed, my pendulous love muscle has supplied artists and writers alike, the inspiration needed to create great works, noting that admiration turned to sour envy when my zippered muse is ignored. My mighty membrum virile is to be scoffed at with your own risk of peril, as a troupe of French Farce actors had, only too late to learn that they themselves had fallen out of fashion. Likewise the skills of my genitalia are so deft that my erection has been known to satiate hordes of lusty, nymphomaniacal bourgeois while I myself slumbered. Nevertheless, it is still foretold that approaching my trouser spear can have challenging consequences, as while it is satisfying it can also impregnate those within the radii of a furlong.

Seriously, though...your mother played my trusty skin flute like a surf-crowned sea nymph rousing Poseidon from his watery slumber.