Posted on | September 23, 2013 | 111 Comments
Scott Muska’s Twitter profile describes him as “Copywriter // Journalist // Lefty // Unselfish Lover,” and he elsewhere reveals that he is a 2010 graduate of Penn State University.
Do you want to read about Scott Muska’s erection? Because Scott Muska wants you to know he had one:
That’s the headline at a site which seems to be share Scott Muska’s belief that this is “funny stuff.” Your mileage may vary:
In the interest of honesty and transparency, I acknowledge that your aesthetics probably factored into the whole erection thing. Because, well, you’re pretty.
Anyway, I first noticed you in Pittsburgh International, while we were sitting in the terminal waiting to board the flight. . . .
I momentarily lost my composure when I saw you — probably due your wardrobe choice of Lululemmon yoga pants that went very nicely with your butt, which looked like two crescent moons facing opposite each other?. . .
(Oh, you charming rogue.)
I boarded the plane and upon realizing I was assigned the seat next to you (what a treat!), I also noticed you were carrying a Kindle (women who read are hot) and that you smelled vaguely of suntan lotion (which always makes me think of kissing the first girl I ever loved at the public pool one summer day, something I won’t say is hot, really, because it’s weird to think back on making out with a 14-year-old, but yeah — that scent does it for me for whatever reason). . . .
(An earlier generation paid psychiatrists to listen to such things. Nowadays, these weirdos just spew it out on the Internet.)
I woke up when the flight attendant announced we had begun our descent. You woke up shortly after, rubbed your eyes, and glanced around. I was attempting to lock eyes with you as you surveyed your surroundings, thinking it might lead to a brief conversation about how crazy it was that we’d both conked out during the flight, and whether you also live in New York, and if so, would you like to eat street meat with me sometime?
But instead your eyes locked on my crotch. I gasped. (It should be noted that this was the first time a woman had spied my junk and I’ve gasped a negative gasp. I think.) Your sleepy expression turned into one that seemed like unpleasant surprise and thinly veiled anger. It was like you had never seen a pitched tent before.
It’s also possible that you were angry re: the lack of length. If so, I assure you that I make up for it in girth. . . .
(Dude, you just published that on the Internet, where everybody in the world can read about your stubby chubby, not to mention your erotic associations involving suntan lotion and 14-year-old girls.)
In hindsight, I probably should not have been traveling in basketball shorts.
(In hindsight, you should seek counseling.)
Eventually, you made eye contact, not really making an effort (or a successful one, anyway) to hide your revulsion. I blushed, shrugged, opened my notebook, and began drafting this letter to you.
Look: these things happen. I get random boners all the time. Especially when I’m in the proximity of a good-looking woman. It’s natural. And most of the time, I have zero control over when and how often boners happen. I’m virile, and for that I will not apologize.
So there you have it: Scott Muska gets “random boners all the time” whenever he is “in the proximity of a good-looking woman,” which we must assume is rather a rare experience for Scott Muska, perhaps in part because of his “lack of length,” but also because Scott Muska is the kind of creep who wears basketball shorts on airplanes and gets erections while fantasizing about 14-year-olds who smell like suntan lotion.
And for that, Scott Muska “will not apologize.”