Whatchama-call-it

I have a razor sharp wit that has helped me with rapid-fire responses on plenty of occasions, mostly humorous in nature and always at the other person's expense.

A few months ago, I got a contracting job to supplement my meager income as a writer. I mean, Time and National Geographic haven't come banging at my front door yet and most of the articles that are published are online and in magazines you probably never heard of. One day...

One of the guys I work with, Juan, is a very sharp guy. Almost as sharp as me, and that's why we get along so well. First of all, he's got a great personality and friendly demeanor and, secondly, he's very intelligent. The only advantage I have is 28 more years of experience. Certainly, he's got me beat, hands down, in the babe department, but he's young and good looking and the boy can really schmooze. Not that I've seen him in action, of course and, besides, he's got a girlfriend, but I know how we banter. Guys always do that sort of thing. Women dance and go to the bathroom together. Men brag. Every guy's thingy is always bigger than the other guy's. Well, not mine. Oh well. At least I'm honest. Hey, it's not that small.

Some men give those untamed inches of fury a funny name or put some sort of label on it. Pink Thunder. Stone Pole. Long John. I have never done that and after a recent conversation with Juan, I asked some of my friends if they did. They all said no, but we all agreed we had heard of that sort of thing before.

Juan and I always kid each other, along with several of the other guys. All in jest of course. One day I said, "I'll bet you were the guy who used to sneak up and snap your wash cloth at other guys' naked behinds in the locker room in gym class, didn't you? 'Ow!' they'd scream, and you'd shake your weenie at them when they turned around to look." The subtleties being that only a geek would bring a wash cloth to shower with and you'd have to be standing awfully close to your target. Too close.

"No I didn't. Eddie, that was you, right?"

"I don't think so."

"Not Eddie," I said in defense of my l'il buddy. "Eddie was always hiding his tiny, little pee pee from the other guys. He didn't want anyone to see what nature didn't give him."

"Thanks, Dave." Poor Eddie. I think you get the picture, though.

One afternoon, Juan was talking about his unit and how he either had a name for it or his girlfriend did. I don't remember who named it and to be quite honest, I really didn't care. Still don't. "Dave, can you guess the name?"

"Juan Inch."

The guys sitting close enough to hear, including Juan, burst into laughter.

"Dave, Dave, Dave, Dave, Dave," he laughed, while shaking his head.

"Oh, that's a good one," cried Eddie.

I am going to be 56 years old this year and I truly relish the thought of being a teacher, a mentor, to these younger guys, but do you really think men ever grow up?