"Now you can call me Ray, you can call me Jay or you can call me Johnny, or you can call me Sonny, but ya doesn't havta call me Mister Johnson."—Ray Jay Johnson
It is not uncommon for a man to give a name to his penis. In fact, I've read that 7 out of 10 men do so. One guy I know named his penis Little Ray. Lyndon B. Johnson, the 36th U.S. president, made no secret of his penis' moniker and the size that inspired it—LBJ called it "Jumbo."
I've met men who refer to theirs as "Johnson." However, technically speaking, I think johnson is categorical. To be correct would be to say, "I call my johnson Little Ray." (Ya doesn't havta call it Mister Johnson.) Such is the case with "schwanzstucker," a faux-German coinage from Mel Brooks' film Young Frankenstein. Given the monster's limited socialization, only the lab assistant, Igor, could have been the namesake for his "enormous schwanzstucker."
I had a high-school friend who ginned up a song about his member. It began with a question set to a borrowed melody, "Have you heard of Old Duke?" I doubt Duke was well known, but plenty of us have heard about the escapades of the Willies, Dicks and Peters. Their stories tend to be variations on a theme, and most of them include an encounter with the teeth of a zipper.
If you compare the list of the most popular kids' names with a list of popular penis names, you find some overlap. Dave and John are at the top of both. A lot of penises are reportedly named either Troy or Hercules, surveys report. In Utah, there might be a Korihor or LeGrand hanging around, but I think you would look long and hard to find a Shorty.
The notion that your penis should have a name derives from the interaction of locker-room jive and LBJ-style ego. You see evidence of that in the way that men are willing to put their package on display, as if inspired by the telltale bulge in ballet superstar Mikhail Baryshnikov's tights. The truth of the matter is that a prominent package announces only the confinement of Duke and the twins, straining to reach a cooling updraft.
Even if a man is not on a first-name basis with his package, he needs to be aware that trouble may be brewing down there. Testosterone levels are reportedly declining year by year, and sperm counts aren't what they used to be. And erectile dysfunction (ED) is apparently becoming a cause for concern in the ranks of men in their 30s and 40s.
If you pay attention to the advertising on Utah's TV stations, you come away with the feeling that in this post-Viagra age, incidences of ED are on the rise. Local TV newscasts are interrupted regularly by commercials touting a new treatment. But for their huckster overtones, the ads are typical of an infomercial—an earnest physician narrates, he plugs a breakthrough therapy, promising a restoration of lost performance in the bedroom without pills or needles or pumps. Then there is a graphic of blood vessels in a penile cross section, followed by a bedroom scene with a 30-something couple lying back-to-back in bed. The woman is visibly frustrated; the man is visibly glum. "Call now to schedule a free consultation! The free offer ends today!" the doctor concludes brightly.
The testosterone slump has attracted the attention of Fox News pundit Tucker Carlson. He has produced a documentary called The End of Men in which the "total collapse of testosterone levels in American men" is discussed. Evidently, one way to make the MAGA man great again is "red-light therapy" from a Joovv device. These "medical-grade" machines emit "red and near-infrared light designed to reduce pain, relax muscles/joints and increase blood circulation," according to the Joovv website.
In a climactic moment in the documentary, a naked man stands on a rocky promontory at dawn, arms outstretched, his package illuminated by the glow of a Joovv light. A photo of the "tanned testicles" scene pinballed around the internet, landing in The New York Times and The Guardian.
From what I've read, red-light therapy has both proponents and skeptics, just as climate science does. Both are predicated on the tacit assumption that technology will save us, either by lowering carbon dioxide in the troposphere or by raising testosterone levels in American men. I don't think it is going to happen. For all I know, red-light therapy is the equivalent of a dash of powdered rhino horn on your Wheaties.
It's safe to say that Tucker Carlson plays to his audience. He's less concerned with flagging libidos than he is with the politics of masculinity. The subject resonates with the white, male sexagenarians who make up an outsize share of Fox viewers. In that MAGA demographic, 15% likely experience ED and even more are contending with the ramifications of an enlarged prostate.
In this crowd, any mention of "my chemical romance" is a reference to a 100 mg. dose of Viagra—not a pop punk band from New Jersey. I'm also pretty sure that there is at least one 70-year-old out there who, after experiencing a Viagra buzz a time or two, has already re-named his penis Mister Ed.
Private Eye is off this week. Send feedback to comments@cityweekly.net.
