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The belief that when you name something you have control over it comes to us from ancient times. In
Bible, God was always renaming people to show his ownership of them. Parents do same thing to children. Listen to parents at end of their persuasions as they scream a child's full name to let them know that they really are serious this time.
I have no better example of this than feckless male practice of naming their reproductive organs. Most men (and all women agree with them) have no control over it. None at all. So, they name it in hope that appearance of control is almost as good as real thing. As you may have guessed by now, mine was nameless for many years.
I was unaware that I had neglected this vital rite of passage until one night when I was designated driver for a van-load of drunk radio people. My all-female crew were chattering away as we rolled back into town on US 41. One of them told of a recent floating party on Suwannee River (and they were way down apon it, too) where weekend had come to obligatory skinny dipping event.
"All of them had names for their hoonies!" she screamed and all others screamed, too.
Very quickly, eyes rested on sober sales manager who was driving van -- only male in vehicle. Since they were drunk and radio station was too small to have a sexual harassment policy, they asked. They didn't believe. Surely a woman down line had done for me what I had not done for myself. Things were getting uncomfortable, so I took control -- I named it.
Right there in front of them, I named it after station's receptionist who was riding shotgun in van. She admitted it to be a singular honor. She didn't admit to much else after that. One of other girls began teasing her over it, so I threatened to have a name change if subject wasn't dropped. Virility intact, I hastened back to town clutching forlorn hope that they would be too drunk to remember my act of wild abandon.
It must have been secondary alcohol fumes. How else do you explain that your member is named for a stranger you never knew in biblical sense?
No. I'm not telling you. She got married. He has lawyers. I avoid tattoo parlors.
Merrill Guice was raised by opposums in the swamps of South Georgia. He holds forth (and holds a fifth) on his website at www.thegoosesnest.com
