New Yorkers, I’m sad to say, are a pack of perverts. Adam here simply wants to live a peaceful, naturist lifestyle amidst the hustle and bustle of The Shops at Columbus Circle. With his robust physique and cheerful disposition, even his lack of genitallic girth can’t wipe the optimistic smile from his dial.
But it seems the locals can’t stop molesting him.
Adam, 15 feet of brawn and bravado, was created by the irrepressible Fernando Botero in 1990 and took up residence in The Big Apple in the early 2000s. He’s paired with the equally statuesque Eve but, ew, who would want to look at a gigantic naked woman? Especially one as bosomy as Eve.
Since Adam first came, so many sickos have rubbed, clutched and stroked his doodle that the bronze paint has been stripped away, leaving a shiny gold penis in its place.
Honestly, New Yorkers, act your age and not your shoe size!
Making things worse is the fact the Center’s management do nothing to stop this dispoliation of such a congenial Big. In fact, they encourage this foul behaviour, claiming that groping poor Adam might bring good luck.
I can assure you that anyone I catch giving Adam an unwanted hand shandy won’t be blessed with any good luck at all. They’ll find themselves sleeping with the fishes in the Hudson River, wearing a fancy new set of concrete slippers – so keep your hands to yourself.
The Man with the Golden Gun
My threats of ultraviolence towards those who interfere with Adam’s willy proving futile, I sought the advice of beloved New York thespian Paul Reubens, who I befriended whilst bussing tables together at the Dairy Queen in Yonkers back in the early-80s.
Nobody back then could’ve guessed that we would each reach the apex of our chosen careers – Paul as a quirky character actor and I as the world’s foremost expert on Big Things and roadside attractions.
Paul’s ballooning ego in the wake of Pee-wee’s Big Adventure had driven a wedge between us, of course, but we’d since rekindled our friendship during a bawdry soiree thrown by our mutual friend – and fellow Dairy Queen alumnus – Bronson Pinchot.
Oh, look at me, dropping names quicker than an upper-eastside lawyer drops her standards after her second cosmopolitan!
Paul had been ordered by a court of law to ‘keep his hand off it’ after a moment of madness in a movie theatre several years earlier, so I felt he was the man for the hand job.
Paul’s words, however, touched me in the most private parts of my soul.
“Bigs,” Paul said in his sweetly sanguine cadence, as we wandered down Fifth Avenue, munching on freshly-baked pretzels. “You can’t fight nature. Trying to stop the people of New York from abusing Adam’s appendage is as futile as asking the East River to stop flowing.”
“Wise words from a wise man. But surely there’s something we can do? Soon that remarkable man’s pee-pee shall be worn away to a nub. A nub!”
“Mauling Adam’s member is the one small sliver of hope and joy in these people’s lives. Without that, who knows what may transpire? Adam’s reproductive organs are, indeed, the thin gold line between tranquility and anarchy in this city.”
“You’re right, as always,” I squelched, biting into the pretzel’s piping hot flesh. “The very fate of New York rests betwixt Adam’s zaftig thighs.”
Pee-wee’s BIG Adventure
With the final, decadent inches of pretzel dangling precipitously from my gaping maw, I pushed my prejudices to one side and approached Botero’s husky masterpiece. The penis, resplendent in the fading afternoon light, beckoned me with its whimsy and candour.
I gulped, not noticing the pretzel fall to the marbled floor, and reached out for the famous phallus. Time stopped as I touched it for the first time. The cold, yet supple metal warmed my very essence, and a sense of peace washed over me that I had been seeking my whole life.
If touching a a blubbery bad boy’s golden gigglestick is dong, I don’t wanna be right!
To poke Adam’s pecker is, in fact, to live. To waggle Adam’s weenie is, in truth, to love. I learnt more about myself in that single moment of casual groping than I had in a lifetime of electroconvulsive therapy and substance abuse.
Taking me gently by the elbow, Paul flashed one of his trademark smiles. “I knew you would see the light,” he cooed. “Now, let me shout you to a movie to celebrate. There’s a cinema out at Uniondale that hasn’t banned me… yet.”
“Are you paying for the choc tops?”
“Of course, Bigs,” Paul smiled warmly. “Anything for you.”
A word of warning…
If you’re the sort of creepazoid who thinks you might be able to paint yourself bronze and stand next to Adam in the desperate hope that someone will accidentally fondle you instead, don’t bother.
All you’ll get is some really unfortunate remarks from New York’s brutish schoolkids and a swift beating from some overly aggressive security guards.
Trust me on that one.
