My genitals are so gigantic, and yours so woefully inadequate, that evolution laughs at you and promises that your male offspring will also be cursed with your ridiculous nubbin -- thus dooming your DNA!

My genitals are so sweetly intoxicating, I was able to convince Cornel West and Camille Paglia to violently disrobe and vigorously copulate with me in a Chablis-fueled, mind-bending threesome that made the seraphim in paradise blush with a mixture of shame and desire!

My genitals are so leviathan that Ahab himself, if he were rendered a non-fictional creature, would surely stand upon his masts crows nest and lob mighty harpoons at me!

If the teaming masses were to behold my juggernaut-like genitals, surely Marx's concept of the End of History would be nigh.

My genitals are of such behemoth proportions, it is to the world of genitalia what Noam Chomsky is to the study of global activism!

My genitals are so mammoth in size, that if inches were words, my member could fill every page of one of Ayn Rand's epic Objectivist tomes!

A fine 1997 Chateau-La Cardonne Bordeaux would go well with my robust and flavorful genitals, even after the third helping!

My genitals are so bursting with sexual magnetism, I could single-handedly seduce and defile the entire lesbian population of Sarah Lawrence University!

My genitals bloat with such passionate force, that upon arousal, I barely have enough epidermis to purse my lips so that I may recite Shelley's immortal poem "Ozymandias"!

If Philip Glass wrote an ambient opera in honor of my genitals, the title of the epic collection of random notes and sounds would be "Phantasmagoric Ode To Big Dong Number Five."!

Hemingway's lost book about my genitals began thusly: "His organ was big."

My virility is so profoundly cosmic, that in the event that every human male were to cease to be, my limitless supplies of genetically super-human semen could impregnate the remaining female population, thus siring a perfect race of confident, and impressively endowed men!

Tired Freudian references aside - your mother played my mighty skin flute like a surf crowned sea nymph trying to rouse Poseidon from his watery slumber!

Kurt Anderson secretly admires the cultural relevancy of my genitals, which have supplied artists and writers alike the inspiration needed to create great American works, and this admiration turned to sour envy when he ignored my zippered muse and wrote that appalling "Turn of the Century" that many have mistakenly referred to as a "novel"!

So colossal are my genitals, that they compelled Stephen Hawking to theorize that my sexual gravity is such that a tablespoon of it would weigh more than an entire LA club full of amorous, cocaine-addled, Prada-clad Casanovas!

My genitals are comparable to Harvard University’s endowment - both are the largest of their kind, both are institutions that demand the respect of academics and undergraduate trollops, and both cannot be seen or used by anyone of low birth or intelligence, unless they work very hard to prove they are worthy.