Extensions of Man

By in

   Marshall McLuhan was wrong: the penis – not the media – is the extension of man.  Might as well name your penis, then.  Especially if you’re an exhibitionist.

   Given the season for American politics, I wonder if “Mike Huckabee” or “Barack Obama” are good names for penises, in that they lend themselves quite well.  After all, you have to keep up with the times: “George Bush,” while funny, will be out by November 2008.  In the Philippines’ near future, I think that more penises will be named “ST” (after Manny Villar) and “Mr. Palengke” (after Mar Roxas).

   Back in my UP Diliman summer days, I’ve seen men picking their needles from the haystack at the vacant lot near the church, of all places.  Go forth and multiply?  Moses tapping the rock with his staff and poof, water?  And then there are the bunch at the Engineering building.  Capillarity?  Do we sink this caisson or float it?  Wait: I think you named your penis “Bernoulli.”

   I’m serious about the “needle in the haystack” thing.  It takes a bit of visual combing to look at the mother louse.  Or beating around the bush.  This is the classic case of the bird killed with one stone.  I’ve smoked bigger cigarettes, picked my teeth with longer toothpicks, and eaten fatter longanissa.  Heck, I chewed on bigger Tic-Tac’s.  Bring on the guava leaves, folks, because this guy is long overdue for a date with the machete.

   I’ve come across my own fair share of exhibitionists: some of them gay folk who think that just because I have long hair, I’m part of the federaccion.  I would rather have voluptuous Russian lady spies go after me and momentarily knock me out unconscious by parting their trench coats.  Nah, women in miniskirts and plunging necklines aren’t “exhibitionists” as much as they would call themselves “liberated.”  Try that on a jeep.

   Here’s a question: why on earth would an exhibitionist call his package a “pututong” or a “butuytuy?”  Have you lost your mind, man?  I would understand a “Danny DeVito” or a “Tom Cruise,” and I understand your overcompensation by showing me your “donkey” and tell myself you probably drove one too many L300’s in your past life as a driver for some short Congressman who named his penis after Marcos.

   The furthest I have gone was to see somebody actually climax and ejaculate, sowing the oats somewhere near the Rizal Memorial fronting Burnham Park.  Padre Damaso?  Padre Salvi?  Ah, Camaroncocido!  And this is what Rizal died for?

   ¡Adiòs pene patria, tu tamaño es caramba!

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