Totally not work safe

So be warned.

I happened to be traipsing through the electronic daisy field that is the Jblogosphere today and came across this post over at Jack's, in which he describes a losing battle with his three-year-old after she announced that a cartoon's moose's schmeckel was misplaced in a drawing.

This made me think of an amusing (at least to me) story of my semi-bygone youth. Specifically, body part vocabulary.

From the time I was very small, I liked knowing the exact words for things. My parents, while not being overtly into the sex ed thing (that was saved for the playground), didn't, and I consider this a good thing, feel the need to coddle me by coming up with ridiculous synonyms for boy-and-girl-bits. As I very hazily recall, I learned the name for my distinctive anatomy one of the first times I took a shower with Abbot Yid. "What's that called?" I pointed.

"That's a penis."

"Oh."

End of conversation.

Cut to pre-school. Me and a group of friends, all talking smack about something. The conversation gradually drifts around to wang-dang-doodles. Someone makes a remark, another one counters. Suddenly, I wake up and cock my head, with that pensive look I get sometimes (SG can back me up on this).

"What's a dick?"

Laughter ensues.

"You don't know what a dick is?!"

"That's because you don't have one, probably!"

"Yeah, Friar doesn't know what a dick is! Teehee!"

Eventually, one of them makes a gesture or a comment and I realize they mean the thing in my pants. "Oh, that?"

"Yeah, that! What do you call it?" The faces stare at me, waiting to hear what ridiculous name the petzel is called around the Yid house.

I shrug. "A penis."

The mouths drop. I walk away, feeling on top of the world despite my three-foot-frame.

I am King of the Dicks. If only for a day.