May 29, 2021
When the clitoris rose more than two stories high from the San Francisco Bay, someone called the National Guard. The fighter jets screamed out of the southeast, and sonic booms rippled across the city skyline. The clitoris rippled too. Possibly with pleasure?
Colonel Buck Harder, who was watching the clitoris through binoculars from an emergency command post atop the TransAmerica pyramid--San Francisco’s tallest building, and also, fortuitously, its most phallic--had no idea what the spasms meant.
“God damn it, men,” he screamed at his all-male staff, “what is that thing?”
It was obviously a clitoris. I mean, obviously. It was, at this point, nearly fifteen stories tall, largely erect, and completely well defined. Aside from its size, it could have come right out of an anatomy textbook, or a pornographic photoshoot with those uncomfortably invasive camera angles. Any human being with eyes who was familiar with the appearance of a clitoris would have gotten it instantly. They would have said, “oh, yes, that’s a giant clitoris.”
“For the love of god, what is it?” the colonel cried.
The men muttered, sounding collectively like a failing outboard motor. The California National Guard was stumped.