Pudocentricity

I know there are thousands of women out there who will say from the get go that there is no need for me to comment on this.  Men’s obsession with a certain part of their anatomy is well documented, well chronicled and well… you’re sick of hearing about it.  Or witnessing it.

I once, on the internet, saw a picture of a toddler who had a remote in one hand while the other grasped his winkie.  The caption said something about it starting at such a young age.  And you get no argument from me!  It starts at a young age, earlier than I can remember.  And that’s OK.  It’s fine.  It starts at such a young age that there can be no recollection of the beginning stages of the obsession.  But it never seems to go away.  Ever.

Michelangelo’s David

I once referred to it as a Pudocentric Universe.  The whole thing revolves around my dick.  And, to be honest, that just about summed up my adolescence.  Palm Pilot was the name of a device?  Pulled Pork is a sandwich?  I thought they were euphemisms for my teen years.  Yet, those were the days of my youth and burgeoning testosterone.  You’d think that by my age, things would have simmered down a bit.  I mean, I’m a grandfather for crying out loud!  But it hasn’t.  Can this be the result of half my genes swimming to me through an Italian gene pool?  I guess it’s possible.  But I hear comments from women all the time about their men behaving in the same way.  Men of all nationalities.  I’ve heard words like crude, adolescent and Neanderthal.  Preoccupied, compulsive, obsessive and possessed.  Habitual, fixated and gripping.  Gripping?!

Ooops.  Sorry.  See?

And I will admit to you that sometimes even I wish it would stop.  You know, to kind of give myself a break.  But it doesn’t.  And notice that I said it doesn’t stop, not that I can’t stop it.  Because I’m telling you, I have no control over my focus on my accessory and the prepubescent behavior it elicits.

A former girlfriend and I were dining at a local restaurant and brewhouse chain called BJ’s.  Right away a guy’s mind is going to go to… well… you know.  But I withstood my juvenile urges and withheld comment.  Once we were seated, the waitress introduced herself and said, “Can I bring you anything from our brewhouse?  Perhaps a Brewhouse Blonde, one of our Nutty Brewnettes or a Tatonka Stout?”

She, of course, was suggesting a few of their beers, but my initial response in cases like this is to say, “I got your Stout Tatonka hangin’ and swingin’!” But out of respect to my girlfriend, and because I wished to remain in possession of that certain part of my anatomy, I restrained myself and ordered an Arnold Palmer.

BJ’s Triple Pizookie

BJ’s is famous for one of their specialty desserts.  It’s an individually baked cookie that is served hot in its own baking pan and topped off with a scoop of vanilla ice cream.  Since it is freshly baked to order and shaped like a little pizza, but is really a cookie, they have named it a Pizookie; a combination of the words pizza and cookie.  Again, out of respect to my lovely and sophisticated girlfriend, I withstood my teenage urges to comment.  Still, when our dessert arrived, I couldn’t resist pulling out my iPhone and taking a picture of it.  We hadn’t been able to decide on a type of cookie so the waitress had suggested a Triple Pizookie.  That is three smaller cookies, each a different kind and each served hot with its own little scoop of ice cream.  And each is a little dewdrop from Heaven.

But before I could eat, my immature urges took over.  With ice cream melting into delicious rivulets across these warm cookies with their gooey, melted peanut butter, butterscotch and chocolate chips, I was driven to post the picture of our dessert on my FaceBook page.  And with it the comment:  My first ever triple Pizookie (at BJ’s). I’d never heard of this dessert, yet by monumental coincidence, Triple Pizookie was the same name I gave to my manhood in college!

Comments flooded in from my friends who all got a laugh from my infantile humor.  My cousin said he could now never order the dessert again.  I even got a few from women which amounted to nothing more than exasperated sighs.  And I sympathized with them!  I really did!  But it is so hard—see? Another reference!   It is so hard to withstand these urges, both by the appendage itself and the referring to it with crude humor.

But everywhere I go, everywhere I look, someone is making a reference to my member.  They just won’t stop!  As evidence I give to you the aforementioned Triple Pizzookie.  Then there was a gum they once had called Big Red.  Even Hollywood gets into the act.  And I am sure it is just to torture me.  They name movies after my tool just to mess with me.  You don’t think I’m serious, do you?  OK.  Obviously there was the 2001 film, Sexy Beast.  Come on!  To what else could they have been referring?!

No?  You still don’t believe they’re purposely antagonizing me?  Here follows an incomplete but exhaustive list of movie titles wherein Hollywood is obviously referencing my unit.

Now available in paper back!

• The Firm
• Lethal Weapon
• Free Willy
• Iron Man
• The Punisher
• Man on Fire
• Unleashed
• National Treasure
• The Big Red One
• Inside Man
• Deep Impact
• Fire Down Below
• The Peacemaker
• Unbreakable
• Walking Tall
• Marathon Man
• Unforgettable
• Babette’s Feast
• Bound for Glory
• Die Hard
• 10
• The Elephant Man
• The 400 Blows
• Giant
• From Here to Eternity
• The Miracle Worker
• Great Expectations
• The High and the Mighty
• Little Big Man
• Raging Bull
• The Right Stuff
• She’s Gotta Have It
• The Magic Flute

See?  Now what else could they possibly be talking about?!  I told you.  The question is, what am I going to do about it…