Please, anonymous-mail-order-chocolate-cock enthusiasts, allow for a little bit of personal expulsion. Wait, that’s maybe not the right way to say that. Now you’re prepared for goop to emanate from this choco-cock blogger. But the only thing I’m about to emanate is some word-goop about my siblings, because dear readers, I ultimately want to tell you about one of the greatest pleasures I’ve ever known:

Shipping chocolate cocks to my brothers.

Trust me, people: Get a brother, ship a dick. Or, you know, if you just have sisters: Ship a dick. Just ship a dick to your siblings and experience, maybe for the first time in your life, what it means to be alive.

A 2003 study by Pew asked people to name the best thing about having siblings, and a whopping 95% of respondents said the best thing is being able to ship them anonymous mail-order chocolate cocks in the mail. And get this, THAT WAS BEFORE IT WAS EVEN POSSIBLE TO ANONYMOUSLY SHIP CHOCO COCKS IN THE MAIL. It was a truly astounding study that continues to astound, to this very day.

But back to my brothers: I have seven of them. Six of them are former NFL offensive linemen – four right guards, one right tackle. They all live in the Chicago suburbs and have shitty knees and mustaches and have Mike Ditka cuckold fantasies; more than anything, they want Mike Ditka to come over after dinner one night and…take control.

My seventh brother went missing in 1993 when the riverboat casino he was tricking on (he was a riverboat casino prostitute during summers away from college) collided with a large pleasure craft on the Ohio River. ….. Sorry, hold on here. I was lying to make my seventh brother sound interesting. The truth is, he owns a string of laundromats in the foothills of the Appalachians; he doesn’t even have a mustache.

So I have six truly divine brothers, and one as bland as a white-chocolate cock. And every year on their birthday—this goes for my boring-ass brother, too—what do they get? TAKE A FUCKING GUESS. Yep, you’re right: They get thickly anonymous, girthily chocolate, mail-order DICKS AT THEIR FUCKING DOORS.

Since 1978—since WELL before it was possible, before some of them were even alive, before was even born—I’ve shipped all seven of these turkeys anonymous chocolate dicks on their special days. Every year, they open the lovely keepsake box, their eyes darting back and forth between the thickness and the words—EAT A DICK—and they realize they’ve been had again. “Honey,” their wives shout from the kitchen, where they are glazing a meat with barbecue sauce, “what is it?”

“Well, seems ol’ J. Getwell wanted to wish me a happy birthday.”

“It’s another anonymous chocolate penis, honey?”

“Yes. It does not say who it’s from, but like every year, we’ll pretend like it’s from Mike Ditka.”

Of course, that scene only plays out in six of the households. My laundro brother is unwed; who would marry that piece of shit?

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