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The Smallest Penis in Brooklyn Pageant: Replete With Dick Jokes, Little Else [sort of NSFW]

The view of the stage from outside, where everyone went to escape the smell.
The view of the stage from outside, where everyone went to escape the smell.

The bar is unbearably hot. The eveningwear portion (read: jockstraps with bowties on them) has just concluded. Dozens of high-powered digital cameras are trained on the platform at the front of the room. The room is at capacity; about 20 people standing outside in the 100-degree heat are jostling each other at the door for a view.

The loudspeaker goes live. "Can you play jumprope with your titties? Can you queef the alphabet? Nobody's here to see that shit!" Chicken Bitches, a drag queen in a rainbow mumu heading the proceedings, grabs the mic and announces that the talent portion of the first annual Smallest Penis in Brooklyn pageant is now underway.

The contest was dreamed up by Kings County Bar manager Aimee Arciuolo after a satisfying night spent with a man endowed with unusually meager proportions. The point was to dispel the myth that less is less, though this Saturday afternoon in Bushwick only ever walks the line between spectacle and celebration, never quite crossing over from the former to the latter.

Arciuolo, porn star Gogo Harder, and burlesque dancer Cherry Pitts form the judge's panel.

The Master of Ceremonies
The Master of Ceremonies

One by one, each of the six contestants takes the stage. Most of the costumes show off the only entrance requirement for the contest: a very little dick.

None of the contestants give their real names. Instead they each have a stage name: Perrywinkle, Sugar Daddy, Rip Van Dinkle, The Delivery Man (his dick was in a box), Flo-Rida (different guy), and Zigounette, a recent arrival to Brooklyn from France.

The talent portion begins. Perrywinkle, a hirsute young man in a light blue tutu and a gold Janus mask, does "interpretive dance" to Blink-182's "All the Small Things." Sugar Daddy gyrates in a tearaway graduation gown to LMFAO's "Sexy and I Know It." A drunk Zigounette sings the French national anthem then drops trou.

The Delivery Man emerges as an early favorite, lighting up the crowd with a small-penis-themed stand-up routine, complete with a Kim Jong-Un-compensating-with-giant-rockets gag.

 

Rip Van Dinkle, who looks like a deadhead who drank from the wrong grail, drops "rap lyrics" as his talent. Really, it's just a poem. The Voice obtained the original copy off the floor after everyone else refused to touch it. The poem is reproduced here exactly as written.

HE'S OLD AND GRAY, I'M SURE YOU THINK

WITH SAGGY BALLS AND A CROOKED DINK

HE SHOULD BE HOME, IN A ROCKING CHAIR

AND NOT ON STAGE WITH THAT DERRIERE

HE DOESN'T KNOW THAT HIS OLD BONE

IS CAPTURED ON ALL THESE CELL PHONES

COME MONDAY MORN HE'LL LIKELY FRET

TO SEE HIS PUD ON THE INTERNET

GODDAMN THESE YOUTHFUL RUBBER-NECKERS

HOW CARE THEY LAUGH AT MY POOR PECKER?

An obviously fucked up Flo-Rida does some noncommittal go-go dancing, yells something about his bisexuality into the microphone, and jumps off the stage.

The judges ask each of the contestants prying questions about the size of their penises. They each point to their shame in totally unambiguous terms, then mutter something about self-confidence.

The audience squirms. The constant hooting has settled into background noise, like a sample loop some DJ put on before walking away from the turntable.

At this point it's not clear from the execution that the contest is really meant to get its participants to embrace their gifts, leaning way too hard into the one joke in attendance. Of all six contestants, three keep masks on the entire time. In between segments, attendees, who seem to all be journalists, sip Penis Coladas underneath garlands of smiling cardboard johnsons adorning the main room.

Chicken Bitches checks the audience's temperature after the talent show. Looks like we have a toss-up between The Delivery Man and Rip Van Dinkle, according to the applause-o-meter.

The swimsuit segment arrives. Five of the six line up on top of the bar in their "swimsuits"--doilies tied with elastic bands and soaked with water guns. (Through a combination of the language barrier, stage fright, and too much Penis Colada, the sixth contestant, Zigounette, withdrew during the break.)

Suddenly, the bar fills with an unholy stench. Audience members who aren't screaming are busy asking each other, themselves, and their god, "Did someone forget to wash down there?"

The bar is now half-full. The contestants go backstage yet again, giving Chicken Bitches a chance to make her fourth wig change of the event.

We have a winner: The Delivery Man. His prize? A crown, a scepter topped with a magnifying class, $200 in cash, and some seriously mixed messages about body positivity.

A woman in a black-and-gold sequined dress starts singing "Tiny Penis," set to the tune of "Tiny Dancer." She replaced all of the "dancer"s with ... eh, you get the idea.

The Delivery Man during his big moment.
The Delivery Man during his big moment.

Send your story tips to the author, Raillan Brooks.


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