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wilfrido david
wilfrido david WHAT'S HIS name is harmless until it is provoked. It is contentedly asleep inside your pants until roused by your thoughts—more often than not, naughty thoughts. It reacts to your sense of smell, sight, and ouch. Sometimes to sweet nothings whispered into your ear. It jumps up when it sees an opportunity. Welcomes seduction or even just a hint of it. It has its own teeny brain (connected to the one inside your skull) but uses it irresponsibly, unable to discern right from wrong. For the most part it controls your behavior, but without your cooperation it is nothing more than a muscle that can become rigid voluntarily on a cold winter morning. It is most vulnerable when you walk on the beach catching sight of those mini-kinis. Like you, the guardian-owner-benefactor, it reacts negatively when it encounters body odor, bad breathe, and unsightly poundage—it shrinks to the size of your pinky, becoming almost unrecognizable. In which case, it will take awhile before it gets in the mood again, unless you give it a subtle rub.

It is invariably called "dick" (the most acceptable one), "rod," "junior," etc. Which is really dependent on what you think of yourself. If you have a big ego, you can call it "King Kong", "Orca," or anything that connotes power and invincibility. "Pete" is a popular pet name, or "Tom" when it is desperately seeking a victim. Now, if your girlfriend or partner calls it a "weiner," you have the fallen congressman Anthony Weiner to thank for. Out of familiarity and without meaning to insult, your wife may refer to it as "softie," which under different circumstances could be a compliment, or as a social security pensioner, which is entirely appropriate. Call it what you will, it is the last prized possession of men who still think of themselves as functional: someone who still entertains ideas of being able to use it someday. As such, it should be well-taken-cared-of, with you as its own caregiver. If it is disabled beyond reasonable repair, like springing a leak at the most unlikely times, accept the fact that if people retire, so does it—in fact, way before you do as it has been more active than necessarily so. (It has cause to complain, often wondering why you have to beat it just because you are horny.) Have you ever considered how it tries to cope with something he is not used to—say, a gay relationship? That is why, at the twilight of its useful years, it feels it deserves a congressional medal of honor or for heroic action in the battlefront.

As a young tyrant, it is out to conquer the world. It is literally jumping with energy; but often in its eagerness for adventure, to its own disadvantage, it tries to stick its head into every hole. It blatantly disregards caution. It dislikes condoms because they dull the sensation, little realizing that without them, it is risking a lifetime of regret if not total disability. Please guide it, short of making it go through a manual of instructions. That little brother of yours' future will depend entirely on you. It could be famous, proof of it's prowess at bedding the sexiest and loveliest of women. Used recklessly, it could be your downfall.

By middleage, to your consternation and embarrassment, it starts conking out. It now needs assistance to perform its solemn duties. It needs a booster, something to lift it's spirits up. It starts to rely on Viagra and Cialis, or something that needs an extraordinary scenario—such as your partner wearing a garter with black stockings, or just a mask and a come-hither smile with sparkling white teeth and a mind-bloggling perfume. Of course, this is almost perverse, but if it does the trick, why complain?

Why is it that famous personalities bring their own downfall, as if nothing else mattered, after satisfying it's initial pulsating urge? Who's to blame? It's "junior," blinding you out of your senses! The most recent "wee-wee" victim is Anthony Weiner, erstwhile US congressman, who was ridiculed, humiliated, his lifelong career lost, and his otherwise stable marriage wrecked. Years of devoted civil service and a bright future ahead all down the drain—all because he let "dick" do his thinking for him. Who's sorry now?

Tiger Woods never imagined his own golf-clubs being used on him. He was black and blue from the wife's practice drives, and later red from his followers' indictment of his wayward ways. Now his green is being used for a divorce settlement, as his career never recovered from a downhill trend. All because of his little "tiger" wanting to prove it's worth! All his endorsements were cancelled by his sponsors, yet he still has to endorse his checks. Now whenever he feels the urge, he curses: "Hold that, tiger; hold that, tiger!"

You would think that President Bill Clinton, who practically ruled the democratic world, had at least a sense of propriety when confronted in a hard-to-resist scenario. Almost impeached for his dalliance with Monica Lewinski, his wife Hillary thought twice and decided not to divorce him and chose to live with the disgrace they went through as an aftermath. She had her head on his shoulders, overcome by the thought of saving the presidency—later becoming a candidate herself. Even years later, as Bill and Monica met by accident (with Hillary being absent), he tried on her his famous pick-up line, "Haven't we met somewhere before?", showing some teeth and a slight wink. Monica looked around and half-whispered, "Why, Bill, how soon you forget. I worked for you under-the-table. You even offered me a cigar, of all things! You even left your DNA on my favorite black gown, you premature ejaculator you...!" They shook hands and went their own way, grinning at the instant recall of the most unforgettable time in their lives.

John Edwards, who aspired for the presidency during the last presidential elections (Obama's time) messed up his life when his affair with his campaign videographer was exposed. His wife was livid, being on breast cancer therapy, as she vowed to get John for all he's got, which later turned out to practically nil. She, however, dissolved the marriage beyond repair and, justifiably so, disinherited him. Today John Edwards's marriage to the erstwhile lover is on the rocks, and he's losing his bearings. His little "junior" is suffering from guilt, but John doesn't seem to realize it. What if he became president? It is a safe guess that he would now be an ex-president.

J.F. Kennnedy and his brother Edward shared a bed with the late Marilyn Monroe, either by necessity or by choice—but certainly not Marilyn's. They both had raging hormones and had several illicit relations with various women. Their youngest brother Ted, who died of brain cancer, was no less known for his own escapades—there's one that almost drained his family finances as settlement for the Chappaquiddick incident, wherein he was driving drunk with his girlfriend and drove his car straight to the lake. Marilyn Monroe suffered from severe depression and eventually committed suicide. Up to now the scandal still makes the rounds in Hollywood's gossip columns. It seems that rich dicks are more equal than the others—they die hard!

In Philippine society, philandering is more or less accepted, imbued into a culture that tolerates multi-families. As our Muslim forebears were allowed as many wives as they could support, loose morals pervading in Spanish family structures became more or less the norm as far as extramarital affairs were concerned. This is not to generalize, but wives are no longer as concerned as long as they get what is due them: wealth, a mansion, a household full of servants, luxury cars, condos—why worry? Wives can also support their own gigolos with super dicks and invoke "womens' lib" if found out! Divorce? The bill hasn't passed yet. In the meantime the Catholic church allows "legal separation," which only the rich can afford anyway. Perhaps if priests were allowed to marry, they should show more than token concern.

In the end, more than you care to admit, it's that little thing inside your pants that makes life worth living. Don't abuse it, give it a little pat when necessary and give it tender loving care. See to it that it doesn't contract Alzheimers before you do. It should never be wheelchair-bound because you are sitting on it—you wouldn't want it to end up in a nursing home, would you? It's the one thing in your anatomy that never needs sunlight, because it's used to being in the dark. Poor little thing! What's his birthday?

Just asking.


[About the author. Wilfrido David is a resident of Albuquerque, New Mexico since 1985. He is an avid news consumer, habitually tuned to global TV via satellite. In turn, he occasionally comes up with spiced up essays and anecdotes liberally sprinkled with his wry humor, at times irreverent, oftentimes as corny as corn-on-the-cob, but nontheless thought provoking. He thinks of himself as a "junior senior," a mature gentleman with very active brain cells but a waning testosterone count. He is an American citizen by necessity, not by choice, as he so aptly put it. He is as Kapampangan as sisig, no more, no less.]

-Posted: 1:13 PM 6/30/11 | More of this author on eK!
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