Pecker Quotes

If you want to communicate an idea to a man's brain, talk to him through his pecker. It's like an ear horn, y'all.

I, Gavin MacKenzie, sexy cowboy man of Baker City, Oregon … being of sound mind and hot body … do hereby declare that I love you, Andie Marks, lawyer extraordinaire, and want to be married to you until I’m so old, I either die or my pecker falls off.I will have sex with you whenever you want, and I will always give you the option to be on top if that’s what will make you happy. Blowjobs will always be optional but appreciated.I will change diapers when called for, both for our children and for you when you’re old and decrepit. I will never spit in public or burp too loudly or say mean things about your friends.I promise never to raise my hand against you in anger or tell you that you’re useless or threaten to hurt people who you love. Ten-four, over and out, happily ever after. Those are my vows.

Stephanie Plum: Do you have your stun gun and pepper sray? Lula: Does a chicken have a pecker? I could invade Bulgaria with the shit i've got in my handbag.

If you want to communicate an idea to a man's brain, you must talk to him through his pecker. It's like an ear horn, y'all.

There's no bright side," Phineas objected. "The man's got no gonads." "But she hit the target," Carlos said. "The man has got no gonads," Phineas repeated forcefully. "It was an accident." Caitlyn set her gun on the counter. "I was aiming for his chest." "You blew his pecker to Connecticut," Phineas muttered. She grinned. "I think you have issues, Phineas. It was only a paper pecker.

It's hotter than a two-peckered alley cat up in here. Humidity must be close to a hundred.

Song of a Second April APRIL this year, not otherwise Than April of a year ago Is full of whispers, full of sighs, Dazzling mud and dingy snow; Hepaticas that pleased you so Are here again, and butterflies. There rings a hammering all day, And shingles lie about the doors; From orchards near and far away The gray wood-pecker taps and bores, And men are merry at their chores, And children earnest at their play. The larger streams run still and deep; Noisy and swift the small brooks run. Among the mullein stalks the sheep Go up the hillside in the sun Pensively; only you are gone, You that alone I cared to keep.

He made a sound of disgust in the back of his throat. "Oh thank you so much. That's what every man wants to hear about his name. You might as well call me 'Little Pecker' while you're at it and tell me you would love to have me go shopping with you for feminine hygiene products. Oh and by all means, carry a big, sparkling pink bag with flowers on it and make me hold it.

If Peter Pecker picked a pack of pecker partners, how many pecker partners would Peter Pecker pick?

And then I stand in front of God's Throne squinting up at His blazing glory and He says, 'You had your opportunities, boy. But did you listen? No. You went on heedlesly reading that garbagey magazine with pictures of naked girls in it. How juvenile! I gave geese more sense than that.' Please, God. I'm only fourteen years old. A teenager. Have mercy. Be loving. I was,' says God. 'For eons. And look at what it got me. You.' God turns in disgust, just the way Daddy does. 'Sorry, but I'm the Creator. I take it personally. There are slugs and bugs and night-crawlers I feel better about having created - I mean, there are sparrows - I've got my eye on one right now. Is that sparrow consumed with lust? No. He mates in the spring and that's the end of it. Consider the lilies. Do they think about lily tits all the time? No. They look not and they lust not, and yet I say unto you that you will never be half as attractive as they. Therefore, I say unto you, think not about peckers and boobs and all that nonsense and your Heavenly Father will see that you meet a good woman and marry her, just as I do for the sparrow and walleye - yea verily, even the night-crawler and the eelpout. But I've told you this over and over for nineteen centuries. And now, verily, it's too late. Time's up, buster. Lights out! Game's over!

She got in, as she had persuaded Jerott Blyth to bring her half across France, by force of logic, a kind of flat-chested innocence and the doggedness of a flower-pecker attacking a strangling fig.

You could have fucked me ’til your uncut, overexposed on the blogs, ‘too ginormous for my snatch’ pecker fell off. And I’d still no way never ever in a thousand years sell, loan, sample you my Easton. And to answer your question, I run my company with my pussy, and twenty-four other pussy-sporting employees. Easton girls do not allow dickheads or cocks in our fashion world. Period.

We do not thieve the peckers of men who've spurned us and squirrel them away in glass jars.

A man’s mouth gets him in more trouble than his pecker ever could, most of the time.

Never trust a man if he don’t at least drink beer. A man that only drinks things ending in ’tini’ ain’t really a man. He might as well be announcing the size of his pecker as he is ordering a drink, if you know what I’m gettin’ at.

So, Swami Jesus, will you go on the hajj this year?" Ravi said, bringing the palms of his hands together in front of his face in a reverent namaskar. "Does Mecca beckon?" He crossed himself. "Or will it be to Rome for your coronation as the next Pope Pius?" He drew in the air a Greek letter, making clear the spelling of his Mockery. "Have you found time yet to get the end of your pecker cut off and become a Jew? At the rate you're going, if you go to temple on Thursday, mosque on Friday, synagogue on Saturday and church on Sunday, you only need to convert to three more religions to be on holiday for the rest of your life.

One naughty little woodpecker Another day pecking your holes Ruining the the forest, tree wrecker The angry wood god turned your little beak into a poison knife Poor little wood pecker, your nesting holes are all tainted Your foods with toxins rife Touch your friends, and they all will die falling to your feet Oh, sad little woodpecker Poisonous tears, shining brightly as they stream down your cheeks

The first thing they do to you when you go into New-Path," Charles Freck said, "is they cut off your pecker. As an object lesson. And then they fan out in all directions from there." "Your spleen next," Barris said. "They what, they cut -- What does that do, a spleen?" "Helps you digest your food." "How?" "By removing the cellulose from it." "Then I guess after that --" "Just noncellulose foods. No leaves or alfalfa." "How long can you live that way?" Barris said, "It depends on your attitude." "How many spleens does the average person have?" He knew there usually were two kidneys. "Depends on his weight and age." "Why?" Charles Freck felt keen suspicion. "A person grows more spleens over the years. By the time he's eighty --" "You're shitting me.

She’s the kind of girl who’d beat a guy to death with a walrus pecker if he crossed her,

Winkie? Flesh flute? Tallywhacker? Baby maker? Quiver bone? Joystick? Fun stick? Lap rocket? Love muscle? Wedding tackle? One-eyed wonder weasel? Helmet head? Wang? Trouser snake? Giggle stick? Schlong? Mushroom head? Love rod? Pecker? Thundersw—” “Enough!” Lucian barked, and when Bricker paused and glanced to him questioningly, he said, “I do not know what alarms me more, that you have so many names for cock or what it means in regard to how much time you spend thinking about cock.

I can call back the solemn twilight and mystery of the deep woods, the earthy smells, the faint odors of the wild flowers, the sheen of rain-washed foliage, the rattling clatter of drops when the wind shook the trees, the far-off hammering of wood-peckers and the muffled drumming of wood-pheasants in the remotenesses of the forest, the snap-shot glimpses of disturbed wild creatures skurrying through the grass, — I can call it all back and make it as real as it ever was, and as blessed. I can call back the prairie, and its loneliness and peace, and a vast hawk hanging motionless in the sky, with his wings spread wide and the blue of the vault showing through the fringe of their end-feathers.

I know it hurts. But, girl, right now you need to see how much better you can do than Becker with a small pecker." I crack and can't hold back the tiny smile. "He does have a small wiener." "See? And you would’ve been stuck with that for the rest of your life! There are so many better guys out there. Guys who come packing.

So, how’s it going? You seeing some art and history or you too busy trying to slap your pecker against anything with a wet spot?” “No, I saw some art. We spent like two hours in the Louvre.” “Nice. Two thousand years of priceless works of art and you bust through it in two hours. Eat shit, da Vinci,” he said. “Where you heading next?

But the boys' bicycle pack also sent a stab of envy through me. If I couldn't yet capture John Cleary with my feminine wiles, then surely I deserved to enjoy the physical abandon he got, liberties I instinctively knew were vanishing. (I know, I know. Psychoanalytic theory would label this pecker envy and seek to smack me on the nose with it. To that I'd say, o please. Of actual johnsons I had little awareness. What I coveted was privilege.)

He was so damn hard, he could chip the ice from his truck's windshield with his rigid pecker.

She held my hand, then let go of it. “This is sticky. That’s pecker juice, isn’t it?

Mom, it smells like a pecker piñata exploded in there.

If you want to run bare-ass through the woods and go swinging through the trees, go right ahead—just don't get poison ivy on your pecker.

Come along", said Joad. "Pa'll be glad to see you. He always said you got too long a pecker for a preacher". He picked up his coat roll and tightened it snugly about his shoes and turtle.

If your imaginary buddy 'up there' and his book and ism tell you to hate and kill people of another #faith and #religion, then, this non-existent f****r's mind is as little as his pecker.

Here," I said, the morning after the lazy, stupid Derek incident, as I intercepted Camden on his way to his locker shortly before the first-period bell and dragged him into an empty physics lab. I handed him three problem sets with the words PECKER and BALLS written all over them in multicolored highlighters, plus pictures of stick-figure people having sex in different positions. "This is to force your douche-bag friends to copy over the stuff in their own handwriting before they hand it in. There's no way I'm letting us get caught just because our clients get lazy." I crossed my arms and stared at him, daring him to get mad. He didn't. He just looked at the papers, surprised, then looked at me. "That's actually a really good idea," he said, sounding impressed. "I know," I said. "And these pictures you drew are weirdly hot." "I don't disagree," I said. "By the way, I'm charging you for the highlighters I bought." I think he might've said "I love you" as I walked out of the classroom, but the hallway was noisy, so I couldn't be sure.

The way I saw it, nobody thought the worse of a man who followed his pecker anywhere it sniffed, like a droopy-faced hound dog led on by his nose. So why a woman did the same should be judged different… well, women always is.

I think Pecker will be able to sit on my lap, once in the saddle," Gleave said in all seriousness. Correia sighed and moved back through the tavern's rear door. "You're making it too easy for me", Sav said, before following her. "What's wrong with holding Pecker in my lap?" Even Errolas smirked as he limped after the other two, another limper close behind, Pecker at their feet.

And how does my aide come by this information before I do?" "Well, you know . . . pillow talk. See, sex—in this case—is an advantage to you. McNab said they'd get through faster, but at data clubs like that, the units are totally clogged. But he's on it and it's his top priority." She cleared her throat when Eve made no comment. "Should I still contact Captain Feeney?" "Oh, Feeney and I appear to be superfluous at this point. You and McPecker can fill us in whenever you feel it's appropriate." "McPecker." Peabody snorted. "That's a good one. I'm going to use it on him." "Happy to help." She shot Peabody a deceptively friendly look. "Perhaps I'm wasting my time going to the lab. Have you and Dickie also had a liaison?" " Eeeuw." "My faith in you is, at least, partially restored.

I was not the equal of my cousins in athletic ability or good looks, but I'd like to think God evened the score by granting me a modicum of common sense, which sometimes seems to be sadly missing in most descendants of Walter Kaminski, who have shown a tendency to live for the moment and think with their peckers.

I hope the world doesn’t get all dry and flaky. Or soggy like cereal. I hope Trump doesn’t beat me up and put me in my locker. I hope he doesn’t touch my pecker in a rough way.

Ye have taught me something I never understood." "What? How to get rid of Parisian Pink Pecker Disease?

Knock it off you two,” Mason says as he slaps me in the back of the head. “If you give him a stiffy during the game, some linebacker is going to break his pecker.

Next to his pecker, a picker’s fingers are his most precious body parts.

Well, man, there ain't nothing I like to eat out better than pecker-poked pig-pussy!

My mama used to tell me, ‘Religion is like your pecker. Don’t ever show it to anyone who don’t ask to see it first.

So I asked her to whiddle me the whole scrap about the old sharp, and tell me who had scratched the verses. “Why, that’s the cove from Saroodj, and he’s the word-pecker.

poison ivy, because who needed a case of that on your pecker). We’re all here in Derry. No camp, no relatives, no vacations, no AWAY. All right here. Present and accounted for. “There’s

Back out of all this now too much for us, Back in a time made simple by the loss Of detail, burned, dissolved, and broken off Like graveyard marble sculpture in the weather, There is a house that is no more a house Upon a farm that is no more a farm And in a town that is no more a town. The road there, if you’ll let a guide direct you Who only has at heart your getting lost, May seem as if it should have been a quarry— Great monolithic knees the former town Long since gave up pretense of keeping covered. And there’s a story in a book about it: Besides the wear of iron wagon wheels The ledges show lines ruled southeast-northwest, The chisel work of an enormous Glacier That braced his feet against the Arctic Pole. You must not mind a certain coolness from him Still said to haunt this side of Panther Mountain. Nor need you mind the serial ordeal Of being watched from forty cellar holes As if by eye pairs out of forty firkins. As for the woods’ excitement over you That sends light rustle rushes to their leaves, Charge that to upstart inexperience. Where were they all not twenty years ago? They think too much of having shaded out A few old pecker-fretted apple trees. Make yourself up a cheering song of how Someone’s road home from work this once was, Who may be just ahead of you on foot Or creaking with a buggy load of grain. The height of the adventure is the height Of country where two village cultures faded Into each other. Both of them are lost. And if you’re lost enough to find yourself By now, pull in your ladder road behind you And put a sign up CLOSED to all but me. Then make yourself at home. The only field Now left’s no bigger than a harness gall. First there’s the children’s house of make-believe, Some shattered dishes underneath a pine, The playthings in the playhouse of the children. Weep for what little things could make them glad. Then for the house that is no more a house, But only a belilaced cellar hole, Now slowly closing like a dent in dough. This was no playhouse but a house in earnest. Your destination and your destiny’s A brook that was the water of the house, Cold as a spring as yet so near its source, Too lofty and original to rage. (We know the valley streams that when aroused Will leave their tatters hung on barb and thorn.) I have kept hidden in the instep arch Of an old cedar at the waterside A broken drinking goblet like the Grail Under a spell so the wrong ones can’t find it, So can’t get saved, as Saint Mark says they mustn’t. (I stole the goblet from the children’s playhouse.) Here are your waters and your watering place. Drink and be whole again beyond confusion.

You stake a guy out on an anthill in the desert—see? He’s facing upward, and you put honey all over his balls and pecker, and you cut off his eyelids so he has to stare at the sun till he dies.” So it goes.

Can you shoot a person if you have to?" "Do you think these men had anything to do with the explosion?" "Yes." He did, but he'd have said yes either way. "Then I will blow the motherfuckers' squirrel-sized peckers off.

Ah got invited for my tea but ah’m no sure about her husband, this moaning-faced cunt fae Coventry who seems totally depressed aw the time. We can aw get that wey, but ye cannae let them beat ye and grind ye doon. Pecker up at aw times.

The light is off, and it is dark. He has one hand pressed against the cold tiles of the wall above the toilet, and with his other hand he is taking aim, such as it is. He’s waiting for his prostate to get out of the way so he can take a well-deserved leak and get back to bed where he belongs, so that if by chance his heart stops this very second, he won’t be found—holding his pecker, dead on the floor—by a bunch of twenty-year-old medics who will gawk at his circumcision and bad luck.

Now, brooder is an interesting word. People who worry a lot in silence are known as brooders. But then again so is a hen sitting on her eggs. The more I get to know chickens, the more I realize half our language comes from chickens. Well, not half. But an awful lot considering this isn't Latin or anything. Cooped up. Egghead. Hatch a plan. Henpecked. Pecker. Cock. Chickenshit. Chicken-scratch. A lot of chicken words are meant to deliver attitude, which isn't surprising to me now that I have chickens. Chickens aren't background animals like fish or sheep or horses. Chickens are in-your-face animals. Chickens if you have them, come to bracket your days. The rooster hollers all morning, and then in the evening the hens have left you their mysterious gift of eggs. Silkies are said to be excellent brooders, to have a tendency toward "broodiness." This, too, is usually meant as a compliment.

I’m a maker of ballads right pretty I write them right here in the street You can buy them all over the city yours for a penny a sheet I’m a word pecker out of the printers out of the dens of Gin Lane I’ll write up a scene on a counter - confessions and sins in the main, boys confessions and sins in the main Then you’ll find me in Madame Geneva’s keeping the demons at bay There’s nothing like gin for drowning them in but they’ll always be back on a hanging day, on a hanging day They come rattling over the cobbles they sit on their coffins of black Some are struck dumb, some gabble top-heavy on brandy or sack The pews are all full of fine fellows and the hawker has set up her shop As they’re turning them off at the gallows she’ll be selling right under the drop, boys selling right under the drop Then you’ll find me in Madame Geneva’s keeping the demons at bay There’s nothing like gin for drowning them in but they’ll always be back on a hanging day, on a hanging day

The truth was loose: I was the son of a son of a bitch, an ancestral prodigy born to clobber my way through loathsome dungheaps of idiot labor. My genes were cocked and loaded. I was a meteor, a gunslinger, a switchblade boomerang hurled from the pecker dribblets of my forefathers' untainted jalopy seed. I was Al Kaline peggin’ home a beebee from the right field corner. I was Picasso applyin’ the final masterstroke to his frenzied Guernica. I was Wilson Pickett stompin’ up the stairway of the Midnight Hour. I was one blazin’ tomahawk of m-fuggin’ eel snot. Graceful and indomitable. Methodical and brain-dead. The quintessential shoprat. The Rivethead.

Isn't Glen an accountant? We're all frugal." These days, by necessity. "You might be frugal, but Glen is cheap. For Valentine's Day, he actually suggested that we go to a card shop, exchange cards in the aisle, then put them back because he didn't see the use in spending the money!" "Okay, that's cheap." Libby huffed. "I swear, if he cuts up my Bloomingdale's card, I'll cut off his pecker.

We washed our shirts and trews and when we went out to get them off the bushes, they were as stiff as corpses in the cold. Some poor cows froze where they were standing like they had peered into the face of old Medusa. Men lost the wages of three years hence at cards. They bet their boots and then pled for the pity of the winner. The piss froze as it left our peckers and woe betide the man with an obstruction or hesitation to their shit, because soon they had a brown icicle on their arse

So you protected yourself and loved small. Picked the tiniest stars out of the sky to own; lay down with head twisted in order to see the loved one over the rim of the trench before you slept. Stole shy glances at her between the trees at chain-up. Grass blades, salamanders, spiders, wood-peckers, beetles, a kingdom of ants. Anything bigger wouldn't do. A woman, a child, a brother - a big love like that would split you wide open in Alfred, Georgia. he knew exactly what she meant: to get to a place where you could love anything you chose - not to need permission for desire - well now, that was freedom.

Hey look,' he said, pointing out one particular 'devotee' on the surveillance monitor. 'Keep your eye on that one, I think he's maybe going to immolate himself!' 'Are you serious?' I gasped, morbidly bloodthirsty. 'Where, where, which one?' 'That one.' He pointed with the fly-swatter-cum-back-scratcher. 'Look! He's all worked up, he's in a religious frenzy, he's turned away from everybody, he's whipping out a bottle of kerosene...' We watched the would-be immolator excitedly in silence. 'He's whipping out his pecker ...' I said in a flat voice. 'And he's pissing into the madhumalati.' Zoravar sighed. 'They don't make devotees like they used to,' he said sadly, and tottered off.

Limerence can live a long life sustained by crumbs. Indeed, overfeeding is perhaps the best way to end it. It bears a definite resemblance to the condition of the laboratory rats and pigeons who continue to press the bar or peck at the disk even when the probability of food reward is gradually diminished, so that on the average only one in hundreds or even thousands (for pigeons who were very persistent and rapid peckers) of “responses” actually pays off. When the animal is presented with an uncertain relationship between its actions and the behavior of the food-delivery mechanism, quite remarkable results are obtained. Even for laboratory animals, the key elements seem to be doubt and hope. Ordinary gambling resembles this laboratory behavior in its persistence even when chances of winning are slight. Perhaps for both limerent persons and habitual gamblers, the size of the possible prize is also important. Both gamblers and limerents find reason to hope in wild dreams.

He always said you got too long a pecker for a preacher.

Women are the Achilles’ heel of anyone calling himself a man. We all get taken in by them, somehow, sometime. We may think it’s our brain that drives our body, like the diesel engine that drove the truck collecting the urine of pregnant mares, but in fact we are constantly at the mercy of our pecker, our dick, our cock

Beware of chickens. They can be real peckers.

Republicans,” the governor says. “Just can’t seem to keep their peckers in their pants, huh?

Daddy always said Grandpa was so tight that when he blinked the skin on his pecker rolled back.

A chain saw is used to rattle a Wood.

This girl must really have your pecker in a pretzel if you’re playing kamikaze with your career for her.

This was a Nephilim—the result of the heinous act of Lucifer’s Fallen sticking their vile little peckers where they don’t belong.

Pecker’s considerable power emanated from a virtually complete lack of morality or basic decency or shame, compounded by a brazen willingness to cover up rapes and assaults and despicable acts of all varieties, provided he was benefitting a powerful man and that he would receive a favor in return;

If Lord Byron were still alive today, you know dick pics would be his preferred medium. Because nothing says, “Hey lady, I think you're smart and attractive and you've got your shit together. We should hang out and do great things together both in the sack and out of the sack” like a picture of your pecker.

A man will say just about anything when he's sportin' badger-food for a pecker

If anyone tries to grab you, you know what to do?” I rolled my eyes again. “Cut his dick off.” “That’s right,” Grandma said. She pointed at me and tilted her head up to look me in the eye. “If anybody ever puts their hands on you, you cut their pecker right off.

Right after a filled her cunt-tunnel wit’ my love-snot, she turn’t around and said ‘boy, you ain’t nothin’ to write home about’! I showed her. Cracked her upside the head and… did her up the hole she tolt me not ta use. She done cried her a river when she woke up halfway through all the fun. ‘Getcher pecker outta thare!’ she hollered! But I ignored her and rutted her dirt-chute ‘til I was good and drained.

Well, I assumed you musta done a trade with the little fella for yours. That would explain that tiny pecker you‘ve got resting on your balls like a worm sunbathing on a beanbag.

Could he put his pecker in you still, or was it all soft and squishy? How long’s it been since you felt a stiffy?” He asked.

know that doesn’t do a frog’s pecker’s worth of good to you,

You know, sometimes if a man doesn’t believe in what he is doing he can do a much more interesting job because he isn’t emotionally caught up in his Cause. It wasn’t long before all the tall blond boys had formed The Abraham Lincoln Brigade—to hold off the hordes of fascism in Spain. And then had their asses shot off by trained troops. Some of them did it for adventure and a trip to Spain but they still got their asses shot off. I liked my ass. There really wasn’t much I liked about myself but I did like my ass and my pecker.

Be firm, my moral pecker,’ thought Gethryn, and braced himself up for conflict.

I can’t see my wienie, my little pecker, my loving love rod, unless I lean forward. My belly blocks it from view.

I can’t see my wienie, my little pecker, my loving love rod, unless I lean forward

Hello, love. Pleased to hear it. I hope you’re enjoying yourself. I’m so sorry your boyfriend is a gnarled pecker. I know as your supportive best friend, I’m not supposed to tell you that, and I do apologize, but in the interest of brutal honesty, he is a gnarly, deformed, gonorrhea-riddled, puss-dripping knob.

Hopefully he is still alive, or his pecker is un-dead.

In case you didn’t know, the blue whale holds the record for having the largest penis size of any animal on Earth, their peckers usually extending between eight and ten feet in length. Now that’s a big blue dick. And as you well know, for yo mama, the choice between a big, blue, ten-foot dick and, well, basically anything else in the world, really wasn’t a choice at all.

I tried to write a story about a reunion between my father and myself in heaven one time. An early draft of this book in fact began that way. I hoped in the story to become a really good friend of his. But the story turned out perversely, as stories about real people we have known often do. It seemed that in heaven people could be any age they liked, just so long as they had experienced that age on Earth. Thus, John D. Rockefeller, for example, the founder of Standard Oil, could be any age up to ninety-eight. King Tut could be any age up to nineteen, and so on. As author of the story, I was dismayed that my father in heaven chose to be only nine years old. I myself had chosen to be forty-four—respectable, but still quite sexy, too. My dismay with Father turned to embarrassment and anger. He was lemur-like as a nine-year-old, all eyes and hands. He had an endless supply of pencils and pads, and was forever tagging after me, drawing pictures of simply everything and insisting that I admire them when they were done. New acquaintances would sometimes ask me who that strange little boy was, and I would have to reply truthfully, since it was impossible to lie in heaven, “It’s my father.” Bullies liked to torment him, since he was not like other children. He did not enjoy children’s talk and children’s games. Bullies would chase him and catch him and take off his pants and underpants and throw them down the mouth of hell. The mouth of hell looked like a sort of wishing well, but without a bucket and windlass. You could lean over its rim and hear ever so faintly the screams of Hitler and Nero and Salome and Judas and people like that far, far below. I could imagine Hitler, already experiencing maximum agony, periodically finding his head draped with my father’s underpants. Whenever Father had his pants stolen, he would come running to me, purple with rage. As like as not, I had just made some new friends and was impressing them with my urbanity—and there my father would be, bawling bloody murder and with his little pecker waving in the breeze. I complained to my mother about him, but she said she knew nothing about him, or about me, either, since she was only sixteen. So I was stuck with him, and all I could do was yell at him from time to time, “For the love of God, Father, won’t you please grow up!” And so on. It insisted on being a very unfriendly story, so I quit writing it.

My pecker’s a poet.” “How’s that?” “He’s a longfellow.

Paint on the skin don’t matter. You lift a hand to him, I will kill you and skin you and pack you with buffalo shit, and kick you till you are alive and can stand. Then I will kill you again, and if I’ve got the need, I will fuck your corpse. Is that understood, you bunch of ignorant, buffalo hunting, dog-fucking, shit-sucking, dick-kissing, ass licking excuses for grown men that ain’t even dropped your balls or got hair above your peckers?

He focused his mind on other things so his pecker would behave and not turn any harder than it already was. Things like pruning bushes, and weeding the vegetable garden, and planting his cock deep inside her. "No, No, not that, I mustna dwell on that.

I told Bryce if he left without me, I'd turn his pecker into a snail." She arched an eyebrow at Ronan. "Do you have any objection to my riding along?" His hand went to his crotch. "No, ma'am, none at all.

A beautiful young woman wants to meet Santa Claus, so she puts on a robe and stays up late on Christmas Eve. Santa arrives, climbs down the chimney, and begins filling the stockings. He is about to move on to the next house when the gorgeous redhead says in a sexy voice, “Oh, Santa, please stay. Keep the chill away.” Santa replies, “HO HO HO, gotta go, gotta go. Gotta get the presents to the children, you know.” The girl drops her robe to reveal a sexy bra and panties, and says in her most flirtatious tone, “Oh, Santa, don’t run a mile; just stay for a while...” Santa begins to sweat but replies, “HO HO HO, gotta go, gotta go. Gotta get the presents to the children, you know.” The girl takes off her bra and says, “Oh, Santa... please... stay.” Santa wipes his brow but replies, “HO HO HO, gotta go, gotta go. Gotta get the presents to the children, you know.” She loses the panties and says, “Oh, Santa... please... stay....” Santa, trembling, says, “HEY HEY HEY, gotta stay, gotta stay! Can’t get up the chimney with my pecker this way!!!

SKANK is scribbled in ballpoint pen on my desk. I don’t exactly know why my heart starts to thump. It’s not like there aren’t messages and other handiwork all over this school. Take auditorium seat J-8. I found out during last week’s Expectations of Excellence assembly that it’s got a faded image of a penis carved on the armrest. No one likes to sit in the Pecker Chair for an assembly. People make fun of you the whole day after that. Ask Rob.

When we talk about birth control and abortion, we’re talking about burdens that weigh heaviest on women, but all us folks with tallywhackers are involved, too. We kept our peckers in our pants ninety-nine times out of a hundred, the abortion debate would be over.

Dr. Hawthorne has a pon-der-ous pecker,” Cherise sang. “Have I ever told you I hate that term?” Wren scolded behind her hands. “What? Pecker?” “Yes, who wants to associate that with chickens?” “What would you rather? Prick?” “Ugh. No.” “Member?” Wren lowered her hands and looked at Cherise like she was crazy. “Member? Member of what? What’s wrong with you?” “Well, what do you call it? Please don’t say penis.” “I don’t know… cock?” Wren ventured with a shrug. Cherise returned her crazy stare. “That doesn’t make you think of chickens?” "Well, it didn’t until now.” Wren laughed until she had to dry her eyes.

There's no point in sticking your pecker down a gun barrel to pee on the bullet, just to prove you have balls. That's a one-time deal and they don't give medals to peckerless pilots.

Take a chance, Ty." Ty shook his head. His chest tightened at the thought of Cole's rejection. Jeff placed his hand on Ty's bare shoulder. "That boy is crazier than a two-peckered billy goat but he's got a heart of gold and a sweet tooth for you." "I can't. I have issues. He shouldn't have to deal with them." Jeff huffed a laugh. "You have issues? Then that boy has subscriptions.

Except for that stuff about the barnacle peckers that was some of the boringest shit I’ve heard since school got out.” I couldn’t even look at him. “Cheer up,” he said. “I brought some real entertainment.” He pulled a brittle copy of The Godfather from his backpack and started reading some scene that began on page twenty-seven—he knew the sexy page numbers by heart—in which some imaginary woman described how big this imaginary Sonny was to

She would have slid off the island then, but Anders had come around and was standing in front of her. “Oh. Hi,” she said like a brainless twit. “Hi,” Anders responded and reached for her waist. She thought he was going to lift her down. She thought wrong. Instead, he clasped her waist, stepped between her legs and kissed her. It was just a gentle brushing of his lips at first, then firmer, and then his tongue slid out to nudge her lips open. It all got pretty fuzzy after that. Her brain seemed to shut down and give itself up to the rush of sensation that suddenly exploded through her. Honestly, the man could kiss. He did things to her lips and tongue that she’d never before experienced. Her ex, Larry, hadn’t been much of a kisser. More a pecker. Frankly, if he had a tongue, she wouldn’t know. Anders definitely had one and knew what to do with it. When Roxy barked and they broke the kiss with a start, Valerie glanced down to see that she’d tried to climb the man like he was a tree trunk. Her legs were wrapped around his hips, her ankles hooked behind his legs, her arms around his shoulders, her hands cupping his neck and head, and her butt was off the counter and in his hands. Valerie stared at Anders, and said, “Mmmfph.” Anders’s response was to let his lips curve into the sexiest damn smile she’d ever seen. Valerie stared back wide-eyed and bemused. She hadn’t thought the man could smile. But then she hadn’t known he could kiss either, Valerie thought as his mouth lowered toward hers again for another kiss, one that never landed because Roxy barked again, this time rearing up on her back paws to plant her front ones on them.

Marital Bliss Donald and Melania Trump are sitting in the White House one night watching Fox News. Suddenly, Melania reaches over and smacks her husband, knocking him off his chair. Donald crawls back up and whines, "What was that for?" She says, "For having a little pecker." He sits there quietly a moment, then leans over smacks her, knocking her off of her chair. She crawls back and complains, "What was that for?" He replies, "For knowing there is more than one size.

ball sack load of pecker snot

If you want to communciate an idea to a man's brain, you talk to him through his pecker. It's like an ear horn, y'all. -Cousin Sadie

prod his halo back in place. It was composed of stiffened wire supposedly holding up a circlet covered with spangles and brilliants. In his case, the wire wasn’t doing its job, and the damned thing listed to the side like a sailor whose pecker wasn’t up to shore leave.

You’re telling me a purple pecker is always a purple pecker? It doesn’t have other names?” Dane asks. “Purple thunder,” Valen suggests. “Purple pricks.” I bite my bottom lip to fight off a laugh. “Purple dicks,” Dane says. “Purple nurple.” Rippley frowns. “Wait, that’s not right.

Everybody’s want and need is similar. Life isn’t complicated, hun—maybe on Mars, but not on Earth. We all want to be loved and need to love—even those who stab us with a word that catalyzes a bloody wound because—the love you give is greater than the love you take. If life is comparable to foam of a ten-foot wave, you can find me ducking under and giving her a pecker on the cheek.

The Kid made a pass at Vi,” Miller said, staring straight ahead. His blue eyes like ice. “He told her he’d like to place his pecker right between her titties and ride her like a mule.” “The Kid said that?” Harvey asked, lighting up a Chesterfield and fanning out the match. “I don’t even know what that means. ‘Like a mule’?

If you want to communicate an idea to a man’s brain, you talk to him through his pecker. It’s like an ear horn, y’all.