“Bit cloudy, chance of rain later. Unless you get out the way of the loo…”
I have, from time to time, been known to encounter one or two people who may not agree with my every word. I know, astonishingly hard to believe. Whilst it is perfectly fine to be wrong, as is their curse, it isn’t always so welcome to be an obsequious turd over the matter and so I have in my verbal arsenal a choice phrase, one almost guaranteed to stun and silence an untoward adversary. Whilst I brandish my verbal slingshot with deft ease and startling comfort, I confess, it was not myself who coined it.
Some while back, if we part the mists of time and flatus, we see a slightly younger PFPT, a PFPT enamoured with a gentleman of great stature. His formidable frame towered above the masses at a staggering 6’11” and even though he made no grumblings of the “FE FI FO FUM” variety, he was as hard to ignore as a carthorse farting in the back seat of a Mini. Everywhere we went, the veneer of social etiquette would shatter, and man, woman and child would approach him with all manner of quizzical impropriety; “do you have to sleep in a special bed?”, “how big are your feet?”, “how do you have sex with such a gorgeous woman who is so clearly out of your league?”, “is everything in proportion, hur hur hur” and of course, the ever so original and not at all tiresome “how’s the weather up there?!”.
“How’s the weather up there” – a phrase thrown at tall people more often than basketballs. He would ask for two tickets to the cinema; “how’s the weather up there?”, he would hold the door politely for an old lady: “how’s the weather up there?”, lying prone on the doctor’s table while a proctologist wore him as a glove puppet; “how’s the weather up there?”. Ok, that last one may not be accurate, but why let accuracy get in the way of a good yarn?
So fed up was he with this trite line of his lofty stature being pointed out to him, that I kindly set my wit to work and crafted him the perfect comeback. A shutdown so cool and sharp, it could have sunk a thousand White Star liners. The next time someone asked as to the weather ‘up there’, he would calmly respond with “it’s very nice, thanks. How does my penis smell?”. Such a gem of disarming humour that firmly reminded the idiotic weather quizzer that they were, after all, living with their face at the height of his crotch. Whose height was the more advantageous now, huh punk?!
Off he went, out into the world at large, armed with this brilliant nugget of pithy wit and it wasn’t long before some cheery dolt should present him with the opportunity to brandish it. He was ready, this was it, the moment of sweet retribution he had been waiting for. The excitement was almost tangible, the glee barely suppressible, the punchline… cocked royally up. His exuberance got the better of his tongue and upon cheerily asking what the weather was like, the poor minion was confronted with a gigantor bellowing “SMELL MY PENIS”.
At the time that he recounted this diabolical tongue-slip, I felt my genius had been in vain, but now, well, now when I am faced with the utter onslaught of logic and reason-free piffle that passes for debate on the internet, I find I’ve grown rather fond of his version as an all-encompassing comeback that hits them at their level of rationale. So yeah, SMELL MY PENIS.
Pretty Feet, Pop Toe 