Is Safety Abroad a Phallusy? Protecting Your Privates from Penis Pirates

It's not easy to admit some kinds of personal tragedy. Breaking it to your extended family that you're going to die because a horse's cock ruptured your colon isn't my idea of a good time. But when you're at the end of your rope with no other options, sometimes all you can do is confide in your loved ones and hope for the best. Cracked readers, you are my family, and I must tell you: my penis has been stolen. When I booked my recent trip to the Congo for the purposes of extreme birdwatching, my travel agent warned me about a rash of penis thefts that has struck the area. Like many of you are probably doing now, I laughed. “Penis thefts?” I chortled “What, are they out of dildos?” I then patted my carry-on case of dildos, momentarily wondering what kind of profit I could turn selling them to the dildo-starved locals. But I didn't turn a profit, ladies and gentlemen, and I came home less of a man that I'd been upon arrival. For you see, while I scoffed at the idea of a shadowy, hunched figure, loping off with my freshly-severed penis on his way to a black market fertility clinic, or perhaps to prank a local hot dog-eating contest, I made the cardinal mistake made by tourists throughout time. I forgot about shamans. Shamans, people. Witches and warlocks trained in the dark art of penile enchantment. Chode sorcery. Dick wizardry. The forgotten rites of cockmancy. Such men, according to the locals, have been plaguing the region, rendering once-proud and robust African cocks shriveled, tiny, and limp (although of course by white American standards, still fairly impressive). And despite a recent wave of shaman-lynching, there seems to be no end to this tide of genitalchemy. I don't know when it happened. Maybe a shaman hexed my package right as I stepped out of customs. Maybe if I'd tipped the bellboy I'd still be plowing women with the confidence I once enjoyed. Hell, maybe it was one of the many times I stopped in the street to let old black men touch my penis and mutter. The point is, there's no way of knowing for sure. Meanwhile, the attacks continue. And while local police try to deny the existence of magical penis thievery by pointing out that “alleged victims clearly still have penises,” there's no argument against cold, limp facts. Countless Congolese men have stood up, braved slander, and shown off their tiny penises as proof of the shaman blight. And who are you going to believe? A police officer? Or a guy who claims that the reason his penis is tiny is because a shaman bewitched it with dark magic? Ask yourself, who has more reason to lie? Please, let my tragic example be a warning to you all. Clutch your penis tight. Hold it dear. Appreciate it while you can. Here are a few tips to help you guard against these opportunistic magicians (a great band name, by the way):

Keep your penis under lock and key at all times. If possible, leave it in a safe deposit box at a reliable penis bank while traveling. Check your AAA guide for a list of good penis banks in the area, and be careful not to accidentally contact "The Penis Bank," an all-male whorehouse in Southern Ghana.

If you aren't comfortable leaving your penis at a bank, a "penis sock" can be purchased at most disreputable luggage shops for the purpose of securing your penis around your ankle. Although be warned, this can be excruciatingly painful.

Before traveling, have your local wiccan group place protective enchantments on your penis. Many such groups are comprised of lonely, middle-aged hippy spinsters who will be more than happy to comply.

Insure your penis before traveling. That way if the worst does happen, at least you can be comforted by the knowledge that there will be a nice fresh one waiting for you in the mail when you get home.

Dress as a woman.

And finally, no matter how much you want to blend in with local customs, don't let anyone dip your penis into a small sack of twinkling powder or chicken's blood. Rude as it may seem, just politely decline and walk away. Trust me, you'll be the better for it.

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When not blogging for Cracked, Michael stares at the place where his penis used to be and weeps as head writer and co-founder of Those Aren't Muskets!