Mars dick doodle

So the Mars Rover has drawn a penis on the surface of the red planet. The folks at NASA are stressing it was an accident:

“The image created was the unintended outcome of its exploratory manoeuvres,” announced a spokesman gravely.

Or in other words, one small cock-up by a machine, one giant cock on a planet.

I hope they don’t make the Rover scratch out its doodle. The Martian willy could be a major attraction for future space tourists, comparable in appeal to the horny chalk-man in Dorset. Perhaps the Rover should draw a giant vulva alongside it, to give equal emphasis to the male and female genitalia. Otherwise visitors might think 21st century humans were dick-obsessed maniacs like the ancient Romans, who considered the vagina a mere receptacle for the all-conquering cock.

It wasn’t just the Romans who were fond of phallic artefacts. The stiffy was venerated by most pagan civilisations until Christianity came along and told them it was embarrassing. The time has surely come for modern-day Christians to admit their forefathers made a mistake and reclaim this ancient custom. Obviously, there’s no point asking the Pope to rehabilitate the phallus – he would immediately suspect it was a trick to make him incriminate himself. It would have to be a leading Protestant, pure of body and spirit.

Do I have anyone in mind? Indeed I do. I nominate Sir Cliff Richard, one of the few world-famous Christians with no skeletons in his trousers. It wouldn’t be difficult to get him on board. I’d remind him of the psalm which says “Thy rod and thy staff, they comfort me”, which is as phallic as it comes in Holy Scripture. I’m pretty confident this would spur Cliff into action – he’s the kind of guy who would glue his arse cheeks together if the Bible told him to.

Now I’m aware that Cliff has his fair share of detractors who think he’s the uncoolest person on the planet (Earth, not Mars). Some horticultural students recently jumped on the bandwagon by claiming that his music killed off the plants when they played it in a greenhouse. When I asked the manager of the safari camp what he thought of this dubious experiment, he predictably expressed confidence in its results:

“Of course his music makes plants shrivel and die!” he declared. “It’s had the same effect on my erections on more than one occasion. You’re a mad hairy fool if you think he’s a suitable patron for the phallus!”

I dismissed his remarks as the ravings of a Satanist. It doesn’t really matter what Cliff’s music does to organic matter anyway. No one’s going to play it during the Festival of the Sacred Cucumber. The important thing is that he’s incredibly popular with Christians, who would follow his lead on the role of the todger in spiritual life. Imagine those pious, earnest faces offering prayers to a mighty dong made of marble and granite. If that doesn’t bring a smile to your face, nothing will.

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