They say in some social circles (often the most common feminist ones, though with ones I wholeheartedly agree – read further) that man's greatest vice is, and will always be, his own penis. Attached to the pelvis skin sleeve, connected at the waist, it dangles there like some forgotten half-baked orifice, something not quite finished, something God and his evolutionary bookworms (AKA The Prophets) neglected to whip off for something a little more technologically advanced sometime before the tetrapod, in time for the cavemen routine where we huddled around small fires and used rudimentary tools for kitchen utensils. Much the same can be said of the uniquely useless male nipple – nothing more than a joke stapled to the chest.

But I digress. Often I wonder if God and his cronies had initially planned to stick a third hand on the end there for it to have some further purpose, that of course until somewhere amongst the fracas of the universe’s evolutionary procedure (AKA The Big Bang) they simply misplaced it and, in a mild panic during the molecular drag race, dug a pinhole in there instead – empty of further creative endeavour. The precise moment the term ‘that’ll do’ first originated perhaps.

Of course we need it to piss, to excrete the acrid uric acid waste like any animal, but it seems the womenfolk got around that issue perfectly fine. Though I do often wonder how many women in our relatively short history met their untimely demise by sepsis or tetanus for needing the toilet amongst woodland denizens before the lavatory seat came to be the norm. Hovering collectively above soil and foliage like astral junk above the ozone.

Don’t get me started on the vagina – an incredible vessel, a creation full of complexity and a remarkable multifaceted tool – equipped with a plethora of uses much like a fleshly Swiss Army knife and purposed for many great things, not withstanding that being of course the reproduction of the human animal – an extraordinary gift, indeed why and how we are all here in the first place and also entirely what (in natured terms) we are all here for.

That is why whenever I look down despondently on my own penis I cannot help but think that we were somewhat short-changed. A cylinder of often sad-looking fleshly malleable (most of the time) meat that for the most part renders itself completely useless. Just sitting there, within the pants or trouser leg, waiting for something to do and when it does have something to do it invariably does it in a way which causes nothing but trouble.

And the (hereby known as the) brain ii, of course. For our little meat pal which strokes our fingers gently when hand in pockets reminding us he’s there, does indeed have one (a brain, that is). One that we cannot help listen to and it suuuure is persuasive, let me tell you. I speak often and freely amongst my few girl friends (space between those two words intentional) that the brain ii has been the downfall of many millions of innocent humans and indeed will be the downfall of many millions more. Billions, even – I’m quite sure of it. If we do one day see the end of the human race due to chemical or biological warfare I’d put good money on it being due to a lack of reasoning by the male cock.

Yet, as males, we don’t seem to argue the point that we need help from our female counterparts from listening to this second intellect source with its singular vision and ridiculously destructive point of view. Quite the opposite. We instead fail to converse with them to discuss our issues at all and instead spend all of our time and efforts putting it in (or trying our best to put it in), or around their vaginas, faces and on special occasions, the buttholes. That is until of course we ejaculate in and around those aforementioned areas and then for the next two minutes submit ourselves to the bliss sensation of reasoning and tact and a sensibility severely short-lived. And I do often think that must be how our women counterparts think, which is why they should, in short, rule the planet with absoluteness.

Don’t leave it to us any longer. We will fuck it up; for you, nature, the animals and birds and wildlife – the cute fluffy red raccoons everyone seems to go on about – those and all the mammals and the fish in the sea and the translucent aliens down in the very blackness of deep oceans – and ourselves. Haven’t we already done enough to prove that to everyone? Which brings me onto my next subject of the humble penis – self-awareness.

Self-awareness is severely lacking in the brain ii – by that I do of course mean the lunch box. A lack of introspection or inner gnosis, a lack of care or understanding or compassion for any person or persons not withstanding its own. Creating a chemical imbalance in brain i (AKA the one in your skull casing) causing severe emotional distress via the following emotions, including but not exclusively too; depression, a lack of confidence, anxiousness, fear, pity of one’s self, jealousy, an feeling of utter worthlessness – and in order to subside all of these, the organism improvises – small ritualistic escapes of ignorance and self-destructiveness: nicotine fog, digital validation, pornographic ego resets and worse of all – alcohol consumption.

If you mix components brain ii and alcohol together, let me tell you something for certain, it’s bad news amigo – primarily for brain i, producing what I like to call a cause-and-effect scenario.

If brain i is already in a weakened state for example, numbed by the hardness of the world in general and the new age difficulties of simply being, then for reasons unbeknown certainly to me, brain ii only somehow seems to get louder, more abrasive, ruder in ways, and infinitely more persuasive. Like it feeds in the garden of your own insecurities and manipulates you in ways more complex when your guard is down and you’re both weakened physically and exhausted mentally.

In these troubling times of doubt and self pity, one will often reach to the nearest and easiest form of mind-altering substance one can easily get a hold of. One often stacked and displayed in pyramids of nectar through neon-tinted windows, sold in small plastic carrier bags by men with beady eyes and often accompanied by salted maize snacks in foil wrappings and encased in tin cylinders which look to me like mortar shells. I am of course specifically talking about the historically popular national tipple known as beer, or the brew.

Drink too fast. Liver can’t keep up. Swallow faster than the liver can chew. Ethanol floods the bloodstream, slides past the blood-brain barrier, bangs against the neurons. Brain fuzzed. Neurons scream and fold. Neurotransmitter doors open. Trouble moves in like a bad dealer you owe money to.

Already weakened by acute mental fatigue and the drinking of the magic, and colliding with one of man’s last and fiercest anti-weapons – pride – the building blocks of good reason begin to give way, collapsing hour by hour like a private game of Russian Roulette. The bullet? That moment of breaking. You know it’s coming. In some sick, perverse corner of the consciousness you even want it. But you can’t tell which chamber holds the sickness; you only know you’ve got six clicks on the trigger and one of them is as certain as gravity.

Then? Bang in the skull.

Bang in the skull; to exterminate one’s self with a sort of absoluteness that you’ll end this nature game but yet still retain the possibility of waking up tomorrow. Not the clean suicide bullet but the phantom shot. For it is not the full sickness, that being complete suicidalness; but more of a cry for help from the brain ii mixed with a molotov of unequivocal sadness and a sort of hopelessness from brain i that is akin to wading through treacle streets in clown shoes.

That’s the truth. Your brain, your brain ii to be more specific – that knotted meat maze of vein, that egomaniac squatter – will kill itself and drag you down the drain when it doesn’t get its way. How flakey, how self-absorbed is that? You’ve got to starve it at the source. Cut the feed. Train your personal neutron bomb instead: sweat, books, repetition. Making brain i stronger in order to fight brain ii is the only way a man can overcome and become victorious in this civil war (though nothing is civil about it I can assure you).

I’ve tried the other routes, all of them dead alleys, and this is the only way out for you. If the thing in your penis hates you and your skull brain agrees you have no choice at that point. Flip it, invert it, build something else out of the wreck. Because you’re stuck with it – a parasite, the family pet – until the very day that you’re not. Until the skull cracks, the light spills, and the spirit slithers off to whatever’s next — the great maybe, the next improbable page in the cosmic choose-your-own-adventure book – you are not always where your body will be but for now your consciousness and your penis are a conjoined facsimile.

Don’t eat your own mortal bullet yet — ticket’s still hot, the scream you hear in your head might be your next incarnation calling, and as inconceivable as it may sound now, you may just like it.