Skip to main content

Wiener ettiquette or, Ten rules to keep Mr. Wiener under wraps

You never think it will happen to you. You're out to dinner with a colleague; a 62-year-old balding clergyman you have known for over forty years. You know his wife, you admire his children.

He's always been a little in love with you; you know this. Still, he's a consummate gentleman and you're always comfortable in his company. You're a little charmed by his hearing aids, and the way he snorts, ever so slightly, when he laughs.

Then, after three glasses of Pinot Noir, he reaches for his cell phone.

"I have something," he says, "I want to show you. A picture I took today. I get so excited when I think of you."

Yup. It happened to me.

Let me make one thing perfectly clear - I'm not the kind of woman men expose themselves to - in any shape or form.

I'm no babe.

I'm more of a dumpling than anyone's darling.

So, if this can happen to me, it can happen to anyone.

The experience made me wonder, what's wrong with these guys? Have they forgotten the basic rules of human interaction; don't show your wee-wee to anyone?

In response to this horrific interaction (which ended a forty-year friendship and devastated me for weeks), I sought out the following rules for wiener exposure. I share them with you and hope they lead to more respectful, thoughtful approaches to that critical moment, when the wiener asks to be invited to the party.

For those of you who all ready know the best ways to control your wiener, please accept this review of simple etiquette as a brief (probably necessary) refresher tutorial.
Rule #1) Don't show your wiener to the other schoolchildren. Even if you think they might be impressed.

Rule #2) Your wiener is not welcome to dinner unless it is invited. No surprise show-ups.
 This is especially true if your wiener is thirty - years -old, or older. 
Rule #3) "If you show me yours, I'll show you      
mine" is not funny. Not even if you offer to show yours first.
Rule #4) The power of the wiener is nothing compared to the power of the press. Never whip out your wiener to a truth-telling journalist or a prolific blogger. (Ahem) 

Rule #5) Your wiener is created to be camera shy. If your wiener insists on having his picture published, it's time to have a talk with it and explain a few things. This is called "counseling." Your wiener will feel most comfortable if you accompany it into therapy. Resist your desire to video record this counseling session and post it on Facebook.
Rule #6) If you get caught showing your sixty-two-year-old wiener to anyone, it is not an acceptable excuse to say, "I only did it to show you my prostate so you'd understand why I have to pee every half hour..."

Rule #7) If your wiener had its own hands, it could take its own photo for you. But since it doesn't, it can't. Don't lie to me and tell me you don't know who took the picture unless you think I'm as stupid as your ridiculous wiener.

Rule #8) When you get caught trying to expose your wiener to a woman, tell her "Blame it on bad judgement!" She won't care - she'll still be freaked - but she'll agree. Bad, bad judgement.

Rule #10) This is the most important rule: Never let your wiener do your thinking. This is actually a sensible rule for Congressmen, husbands and every Presbyterian clergyman I've ever known, come to think of it.
Finally - if, in spite of all your best intentions, you cannot stop yourself from taking a picture of your wiener, do us all a big favor.

Keep it to yourself - or better yet, do a quick two step.

Peek once, delete.

Then, get over yourself.


  1. One vagrant thought: This was "a 62-year-old balding clergyman you have known for over forty years."

    Leaving aside that Weiner is maybe 48, I've been reading a lot lately about men in their 60s engaging in sexually foolish behavior with women, usually 20 years their junior.

    "Have they forgotten the basic rules of human interaction?" Mebbe. Is this one of those life-stage developments that have always gone on but is rarely spoken about, until this era? I have no answers.


Post a Comment

Thank you for your comment!

Popular posts from this blog

Why I no longer trust the St. Paul Police

My dogs awoke me,  barking,  at 3:00 AM -  and I knew something was wrong. I grabbed my under-the-bed baseball bat and stormed into my backyard. The car next door had been burglarized; a neighbor's garage broken into. And the woman who lives in the house behind mine was robbed in the middle of the night. And so as the flood lights slapped across my empty back yard and my dogs growled, I determined to apprehend the culprit. I searched the yard for the wretched, evil doer who would dare take advantage of the decent folks who live in Como Park. Behind me, in my living room, someone walked out the front door with my MacBook and other electronics. Because I didn't check inside the house - I didn't discover the crime until the next morning. "This ain't CSI, lady."  I phoned the police at 7:30 A.M. It took him almost an hour to get to my home - and when he finally knocked -  I opened my door to an overweigh, winded officer. By then I was frant

Here's to you, Mister Hoffman

Dustin Hoffman is eighty-years-old.  Dustin - say it isn't so. Baby Boomers around the globe worship your legacy - your brave, outrageous career where you stepped out - risked much - and led us into our maturity. As Michael Dorsey in  Tootsie  - you exposed an artist brave enough to lampoon his feminine side. As Ted Kramer, in Kramer vs. Kramer  - you challenged other men to reexamine their ability to nurture, to settle for the glories of domesticity. And no one else could have exposed the complexities  of Raymond Babbitt as did you in  Rain Man.   The world honors your excessive and grand talent - but if these allegations are true, none of that will matter.  History will forget your artistry and remember you as a dirty old man. That's what I do not understand.  You're not a B list guy - - not a "made for TV" Hollywood guy. You're Hoffman, for god's sake.  And I cannot fathom you jeopardizing your lionized legacy around someone's seve

Overheard at a coffee shop; An old woman's wisdom.

When she was a small child, she posed in front of her nursery mirror - fascinated with her reflection.  Sometimes she emulated Betty Davis.  Sometimes Shirley Temple.  When she was old enough, her mother enrolled her in tap dance classes, hoping to channel some of that ham-bone energy into something constructive. It worked.   Twice each year, the tap school dressed her in frilly, fluff-flounced costumes, put her on stage with a dozen other little show-offs,  and together they tapped their way to elementary school stardom. When she turned 13-years-old, her tap-dance gang joined the downtown YWCA where they spent their Saturdays doing something called "creative dramatics." Swimming, archery, bowling and hula absorbed their weekends, and she made new friends who introduced her to neighborhoods and families she might never have met and enjoyed. In high school, she auditioned and was cast in every onstage opportunity. In college, where the competition stiffened, she turn