Dear Readers:
It’s me—Jared Porter’s penis. I’m down here. Down here! Standing next to the toothpick. Yes, that’s me. The l’il guy.
So listen, I’ve been catching a ton of shit these past 24 hours, what with Jared being fired by the New York Mets because he sent photos of me to a woman reporter. And I just want to say—in my defense—I was against the plan the entire time.
I swear to God:
The. Entire. Time.
I actually remember the precise moment I knew Jared had lost his mind. We were sitting in his Chicago apartment, having just finished watching “Rookie of the Year.” That’s the one about the Cubs pitcher, not the Twins manager. Jared was two or three glasses of wine in, clearly feeling a little frisky (Gary Busey can do that to a guy), and he grabbed his phone, unzipped his pants and stared down my way.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
He didn’t reply.
“Jared! What are you fucking doing!?”
Again—no reply.
Then, he took my picture. Two or three of them. Click, click, click. Without my consent. Which, legally, is OK. I am his penis. We’re attached and all. But then I watched him punch in a phone number, and attach one of the shots … of me.
“Jared! Don’t do this!” I screamed.
“Jared! Don’t hit send!” I pleaded.
“Jared, what in fucking fuck’s name are you—”
Too late. He sent it.
I could tell, as soon as the image jumped from his phone to another phone, Jared was nervous. He kept waiting for a reply. Staring and staring and staring, like a puppy looking for a Milk Bone. He finally gazed toward me and said, “She hasn’t replied yet …”
Um, duh.
“Jared,” I said, “take a close gander this way. Seriously, look at me. I’m 3 inches erect. I look like a mushroom who survived a car accident. The botched circumcision repair was OK, but I’d have preferred the doctor be licensed in something beyond otolaryngology …”
I could tell Jared wasn’t fully absorbing the information.
“Jared!” I yelled. “No woman wants to see a picture of your penis. Or Brett Favre’s penis. Or … anyone’s penis. In my day, if you liked a woman you tried small talk, and maybe—just maybe—a dinner invitation. But even then, she does not, under any circumstance, want to see your dick on her iPhone. Trust me.”
Jared looked up.
“Do you think,” he said, “this will come back to bite me?”
“Nah,” I replied. “I’m sure it’s nothing.”
