Every time I look at Kate Hudson, I have a debate with my penis. Which is even more awkward than you’d think, particularly when it happens in the celebrity magazine aisle at Barnes & Noble.

ME: “Dude, dig how low those pants are ridin’!”

BARTHOLOMEW J. VAGINASTRETCHER: “Yeah, but…”

ME: “But what?”

BJV: “I don’t know, not exactly. I’m just not feeling it.”

ME: “You’ve gotta be kiddin’ me! Those abs are hot!”

BJV: “Look, I get it, okay? The individual components are all there.”

ME: “Damn right they are. Look at that ass!”

BJV: “You don’t think she’s a bit… skinny or something?”

ME: “Context, man! On her frame, that booty is ripe for the lickin’!”

BJV: “Maybe I’m just hung up on childhood memories of her mom, and she’s suffering by comparison.”

ME: “The hell?! First, you’re a dick, and dicks have no conscience. It therefore follows that you don’t have much of a memory, either.”

BJV: “Oh, here we go with the generalizations! Like I’m some unfeeling genital sociopath, rather than a sensitive, caring gland.  Fuck you. I remember plenty.”

ME: “Whatever. Second, Goldie wasn’t hotter than Kate. Funnier, no question. But not hotter.”

BJV: “Funny contributes to hot. Her mom’s smile and personality were captivating.”

ME: “OMFG, what has happened to you?! I’m supposed to be your moderating influence. It’s like you’re turning into a giant clit!”

BJV: “It’s called evolution. It’s called maturity. But thanks for the ‘giant’ bit.”

ME: “Fine. Just fine. Tell ya what… next time you wanna get off, let me know and I’ll try to find some porn that suits your newly refined tastes. I’m thinking Golden Girls, season 3.”

BJV: “I hate you. I really do.”