I was told to imagine my penis as an advanced space-faring vessel, drifting through the witless void. You cannot guide someone into adulthood: you can only push someone too hard into the burden of sarcasm. This person will become mineral: Earthborn mystery.
Buffeted by solar radiation and unseen arrows, my great dick ship and its forlorn crew of two approached a dreadful planet. Guido the desk armorer played vanished school anthems. Bunny the damp broom lacked the macho instinct needed to crank penis hard.
I was instructed to imagine myself — the torso and limbs hanging from the posterior of the phallus — as the ornery artificial intelligence controlling the fleshy vehicle. Possessing infinite authority and malicious stupidity, I doom my penis to a quick and brutal destruction.