Tony Woodlief | Author


The thing about boys who call their thingies by the clinical name is that it’s creepy. This is why my sons call it a wiener, to Wife’s utter mortification. She defers to me nonetheless, as the resident expert on all things wiener-related. The problem is that, as some of you may know, there is more to the toolkit, if you will. And said equipment needs a name, because one Mr. William Isaac can’t be troubled to get all of his junk out when he pees. Instead he lets his waistband rest just below the, um, point of exit.

He doesn’t seem to have a problem with this. But it’s giving me the willies. Lately I’ve just pointed in horror when I catch him doing it and urged him to pull his pants all the way down. Sometimes he tries to comply in mid-pee, and that’s just not a good idea. So I need a word to refer to what it is that I want him to liberate from his waistband.

I understand if nearly every woman who would ordinarily read the entire post is now exiting. I understand that I am being irrational. I merely submit that whereas we guys don’t tend to get all emotional about Julia Roberts movies, or sappy Internet stories about handicapped puppies and the Life Lessons they hold for us, or about the tone of someone’s voice in a conversation, or the ten billion other things that some women, sometimes, on rare occasions, get emotional about, we do bend in the direction of sentimentality where the wiener is concerned.

So I need to have a discussion with Isaac, but I’m finding myself at a loss as to what to call his . . . other parts.

Jellybeans? That might ruin a perfectly good candy.

Marbles? Little boys play with them enough without giving them a toy’s name.

Peanuts? That’s bad on about ten different levels.

It’s a real conundrum. I’d ask you your opinion, but apparently Movable Type hates me, and has decided to shut everyone but professional spam dispensers out of my comments section, including me.

Recently I found myself in a distant city, on a subway, and there was a guy next to me reading a handbook for first-time fathers. I wanted to ask him if there’s a section on this problem, but I didn’t want to scare him. Somebody ought to write the real father’s handbook, though. It would cover stuff like what to call the wiener, how to deal with foot odor, and where to hide your bubblegum so your three year-old can’t find it.

I’m just saying.

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