Toobin, or not toobin? There is no question

O lucky, lucky Jeff Toobin.

Reading about his masturbo-technico contretemps, as we have been, raptly as anyone, that is what comes home.

Yes, his name will forever be synonymous with what may henceforth be known as Toobining. It will follow him and his heirs and their heirs forever. -- Do you Toobin? Only in private. ...Toobin there, done that. ... Toobin, or not to bin, that is the question... Toobin in the mornin', toobin in the evenin', toobin at Zoomin'time; be my little toobin and toobin all the time...

Descriptions of the event are cryptic. Several New Yorker mag biggies are doing a pre-election simulation, with an area TV station. What is that? And why? Toobin is playing the courts -- huh? Writer Masha Gessen is playing Trump -- pardon?

And then, soberly recounts the NYT:

"During a pause in the call for breakout discussions, Mr. Toobin switched to a second call that was the video-call equivalent of phone sex... 'I am quite sure that Toobin didn’t realize that the people on the New Yorker call could see him,' Mx. [sic] Gessen/Trump said in an interview. 'I suspect he thought that when the breakout rooms started, he was disconnected and he didn’t realize we’d all returned to a live camera.' All the while, participants continued as if nothing were wrong... When Mr. Toobin rejoined, he seemed unaware that he had been seen..."

Okay: Who was the turn-on? Of the three women, two were grannies, one, Mx. Gessen, queer; none with any history of him hitting on them. A simultaneous sex-call video? Was he bored? Turned on by simulated court power? Think the exercise was about stimulation, not simulation? Or did he hear, "erection" play, instead of election play? Prompting that video-sex break with an unzipped willy-wonk, before an undimmed camera? Carrying on long enough for the others to watch, but not go, "Yo, Jeffie! We see you!" - ? Letting him return to the group, nobody saying a word? Just decide to report it later? In traumatized angst? And they FIRE him??

We will leave him, and the puzzle of it, to history. Many there are who scorn him, many others who pity. However, for us, speaking both for sisterhood and in the quasi-royal plural, he is neither to be scorned nor pitied; but envied. For, once again, pinpointing the pertinence of physiology to power. AND glory.

Yes: For us, this Toobination is just another trigger. A reminder of the simplicity, the user-friendliness, the sheer shimmering superiority of the male equipage. Deplorables would call this penis-envy. But even that word is a painful trigger. We prefer simply to describe ourselves, as it would be in Deutsch: Peterlos. Peterless.

What a piece of work is a peter! Who wouldn't envy one, who would not rather have one? The elephant joke notwithstanding (Elephant to naked man: "How do you breathe with that thing?" and: "How the hell do you pick up peanuts?") -- just look what it provides, in one unique, inspired package:

Both orgasm and urination, in a single handy, compact, accessible equipage. Check the engineering genius: An aperture just large enough for emissions, but way too small for babies. Then: Not only do men never have to fake orgasm, the peter is completely unsuited for having periods. Having a peter means no periods. Only the peterless have them.

So: Talk about peter-perfect. Handy. Neat. Easy to tidy. Easy to store.

And, as Jeff has painfully reminded us peterless types, yet again -- a cinch, and a pleasure, to use, whenever you like. Because, even when not actively in use, it feels nice to the touch. Boy children discover this early. Watch them in the bath (camera off, please). From toddlerhood, they can be spotted with wee fingers down their diapers or training pants. Who wouldn't, who had a pocketsize portable pleasure-pack at his fingertips?

This is all in addition to the hugely superior peeing procedures. Not just superior trajectory, also discovered early, and demonstrated often. But, again, the ease, the handiness, the simplicity, when you have to go. No squatting. No dismay at dirty toilet seats. No fear of running out of paper. I mean: Males can pee standing up! Stand proud, and, more than that: go anywhere; give a squirt, a shake, tuck it back, punckt. Okay, the last four drops go down your pants -- your lady will do the laundry.

Yes: A peter is a gladsome thing. Envy? You bet your sweet -- I mean, what's not to envy?

So, fortunate Jeffrey, hang in and hang on, so to speak. You are one of the peterful, and you have had the benefit. Yes, the wife and kids and world will have something to hold over you forever, your name will forever be a bit of an elbow-dig. But the gibes will subside, the hooting will cease to hurt, the work will resume, the Toobin name will be part of history. And, o fortunate maleperson, you'll always have your peter. Which means joy, forever at hand.

As Georges Brassens so memorably sings in Fernande -- it's at hand for everyman, from seminarian to Unknown Soldier.

To his opening verse, we offer this free-rhyming translation:

An aging boy, an aging toy,

Makes solitary merry,

I while away a lonely day

To the beat of this sweet little song:

Oh, when I think of Mona

I get a boner, get a boner,

When I think of Peggy Sue, a boner, too

And when I think of Millie

My boner is a dilly

But when I think of Fay

My boner just won't play;

Gettin' bonerous is onerous, I'm sad to say...