When I was in high school, my brother (who, as you may know, is seven years my senior) pinned me on my stomach, whipped out a black Sharpie, and proceeded to draw a very intricate, impressive picture of male genitalia on my back. For your sake, I will omit the rest of the description that involves an accompanying image of a human with an open mouth. (Just picture that scene from Ten Things I Hate About You.) I'm a lightweight, so there was no fighting the inevitable graffiti that spanned the entire length, and width, of my back. Since I couldn't see the artwork, except for the Polaroid picture (throoooowback) someone--yes, I had friends over at the time--took of my sibling's masterpiece, I went to sleep covered in cartoonish pornography. What did I care? It was hidden by my shirt, and I was a wear-sweatpants-to-class high schooler...for which I currently feel more shame than the wiener on my back. My standards were low. Mom's were not. In the middle of the night, I awoke to my mother, a washcloth, and some sort of solvent that I was too pissed-off-tired to register. She scolded me when I told her to "go away! I'm sleeeeeping!" She said, "I have to get this off of you." Now, Mom? Really? Mom, where were you when HE DREW IT ON ME in the first place? Whatever. The graphic eventually disappeared from my back after much scrubbing on Mom's part and much mumbled dissent on my part. Now that I think about it, this incident could explain my aversion to getting a tattoo.
Throughout my youth, Dad and Brother left each other notes littered with middle fingers and penises. "Hey, Dick, I need to borrow a shovel. *insert pecker picture*" When my husband, who was my boyfriend at the time, arrived at my parents' house one day, he found a little present just for him, perfectly perched atop the porch railing: dog poop in the shape of a penis...compliments of my Dad.
As a teacher of many teenage boys, I find wieners drawn everywhere. In the margins of papers. On the desk. Inside of a brand new book. It's straight out of Superbad, people. According to teacher legend, one brave student (or group of students), erected an enormous snow penis in the posterior lawn.
Today, I called my husband and requested that he text a picture of the market list to me. This gem arrived at my inbox:
I can't escape it. There is no peace from the penis. It follows me everywhere. I can't even go to work without it sneaking onto tests and essays and inside of books.
Gentlemen, I know your junk is attached, but stop being so attached to your junk. The plethora of penis pictures needs to stop. If you're going to compose masterpieces, at least toss in an element of surprise or wit: add an army helmet and a gun because your dude part likes to use protection.