Before we begin, allow me to introduce myself. My name is Rigoberto and I’m your average penis. For most of my life, I’ve belonged to a nice Jewish boy named Walter. Walter is great. I’ve been a happy camper for most of my life.

But something terrible has happened to me recently, and I can’t hold it in much longer. I initially wanted WUnderground to publish this piece, but they already have more penises on their hands than they can handle. Thus, I have come here, to this (what is this? a newspaper? sure!) pubic—I mean public—platform to tell you the most harrowing experience of my life.

You might be thinking, “Rigoberto, you don’t know diddly-squat about life-scarring experiences! You’ve never done your taxes! You’ve never watched reality television! You’ve never poured kerosene into what you thought was an old-timey lamp but was actually a live hamster and even though you screamed for it to stop it still ballooned into a human-sized hamster and then tore down the city and it was all your fault but you still lied about it!”

You might be thinking, “Rigoberto, you’re just a lousy peen with an unnecessarily lengthy four-syllable name! What are you compensating for? And what could you possibly have to say?”

Well, dear StudLife reader and/or potential Internet commenter, don’t be so quick to judge. Just like peens with no legs or peens with too many legs, I have a story to tell: I was once trapped in a red Solo cup.

I know, I know. It sounds cliched. Who hasn’t been trapped in a red Solo cup at some point or another, right? You’re probably thinking, “Rigoberto, silly, you’re wasting my time! You dumb, dumb peen, you!”

This was different. Walter’s douchebag friend Timmy pulled a red Solo cup from his pocket and said, “Hey Walter, put your dick in this red Solo cup, why don’t cha?” and Walter, who’s always tried to fit in (why, Walter???? You are perfect just the way you are!!!!), said, “Yeah, I’m gonna put my dick in that red Solo cup.”

And then, I was zooming towards the cup. In a freak accident, I became detached from Walter’s beautifully sculpted loins and fell into the cup. Alone. I screamed but to no avail. After 20 years of having a solid support system, I was left on my own, drooping to the side of a 12-ounce, non-toxic plastic cup.

What had I done to fall into such a fate? What had I done to deserve the same treatment as frat-bathtub-mixed jungle juice? The most tragic part of the journey was that I was separated from the friends I hold most dear: my balls. They, too, had broken off in the process. But they bounced to the rim of the cup, falling to the ground and into nothingness.

I was devastated and depressed; the only thing I could do was hum Sufjan Stevens songs to myself. I imagined that I had arms so I could hug myself tightly. Thankfully, one of Walter’s friends found me and decided to release me into the wild—and by the wild, I mean Bear’s Den.

I’ve begun to rebuild my life here in Bear’s Den. I’ve learned how to hop around efficiently, and my favorite activity is pretending to be a mozzarella stick because that’s the closest I come to getting oral these days.

Sometimes I see good Walter around, but he doesn’t make eye contact with me. Despite my tragic experience, I still experienced a significant amount of (emotional) growth. I have become an independent Rigoberto, and for that, I am grateful.

I still think about my balls quite a bit. I don’t know where they are, but wherever they roam, I hope they are roaming freely. Also, I hope they learn how to speak Spanish.

As for Walter—he’s still a great guy, but if he tells you he has a penis, he’s lying.