"It's how it goes. My cousin manifested the Whisper Dick. Hasn't had a night of peace ever since. But his balls are way calmer. And he'll be the first to admit that him and his nuts have never had the greatest communication. It's sobering, right? When we realize how little we communicate with those closest to us, but that's the quintessential postmodern condition of capitalist alienation, and we're all going through it, right? So, you know, plus and minus. The Whisper Dick helps those strong silent balls process, but the constant chatter interferes with healthy sleep patterns. Plus and minus. One time my cousin went on one of those touristy nude camping deals, and sure enough a hungry tick burrowed into his ballbag. He was just about ready to apply the Zippo lighter despite the risk of collateral damage to his own wrinkly meats when the Whisper Dick swung into action, resembling a highly verbal cartoon Brontosaurus neck and head in miniature, thus gently persuading the tick to disengage, and even pay for the damages. Of course, this generated no end of resentment in the other campers who lacked the power of the Whisper Dick and were therefore consigned to fend for themselves with lighters, tweezers, Swiss Army Knives, and what have you. Even the Whisper Dick could not sway their hardened hearts, and thus my cousin carried their scorn like a cross. Plus and minus. Everything's got those tradeoffs, those attached costs, those counterintuitive if not outright hidden fees. Communication is satisfying but necessarily entails a degree of discontent. What will be said next? What new truth shall be revealed? One cannot help but be edgy with anticipation. What wonders shall be aborning within the breathy expositions of the Whisper Dick?"
