task was to bring the French Quarter to its knees! This was a formidable challenge since Coop
and I were, by far, the smallest convention in town. It was just the two of us representing our
newly formed fraternal organization, The Benevolent Order of Philandering Malingerers.
Like all fraternal organizations, BOOPM was started as a reason to get out of the house once a
week, away from the old lady and the kids, and hang out with The Boys: drinking, smoking
cigars, playing pool, cards, throwing darts, and swapping lies. But a bunch of us old post-forty
alienated war-baby hippies realized that there wasn't much chance of any of us being invited to
join a "real" fraternal org like the Elks, Moose, Odd Fellows, or the Lions Club. We'd been
discussing this injustice at our Monday night poker game. It was pointed out that even such
teevee losers like Amos N' Andy had The Mystic Nights of the Sea (Holy Mackerel, Kingfish!) and
Ralph and Norton had the Loyal Order of Raccoons. Even Ralph Kramden's prehistoric cartoon
knockoff, Fred Flintstone, had the Loyal Order of Water Buffalos. We too longed for the
secret handshake, the password, and the skanky "friendship" that comes from belonging to a
fraternal org. BOOPM was formed that night, replete with secret password, handshake, by-laws, and
suchnot quasi-mystic claptrap. An alternative name was proposed, "The Worshipful Order of Mugs, Lugs,
Thugs, Pugs, Galoots, Palookas, Mamalukes, Mutts and Putzes," but it became apparent that the acronym
(WOOMLTPGPMMAP) was a neck breaker, so we went with what was easier. And soon the ranks
burgeoned with dues-dodging derelicts, delinquents and deadbeats. Perfect!
The BOOPM by-laws clearly stated that, once a year, a
contingent of BOOPM brothers would make a seven day pilgrimage to the French Quarter, the
very Mecca of our brotherhood, and bring the French Quarter to its knees!
I had to go since I was the duly elected Exalted Grand Ambulating Desi (EGAD), and Coop came
along since he had the time, money, desire, and, perhaps most importantly, a Cadillac. He was
also the BOOPM treasurer, aka, The Closely Watched Mertz. For reasons still not quite clear,
BOOPM borrowed heavily from I LOVE LUCY for its motif. Perhaps because Ricky Ricardo belonged
to no fraternal org, though it was pretty clear he was a Santerian. . .which isn't even close to
being the same thing.
In New Orleans, Coop and I naively thought that, through the sheer dint of our good intentions,
tough livers, and a seemingly inexhaustible desire for Pure Fun, we might actually bring the
French Quarter to its knees. After four days, though, the Quarter didn't seem to show any signs
of throwing in the towel, whereas Coop and I were starting to get a little wobbly on our pins.
Since we had gone to New Orleans without any sort of game plan, Coop and I instigated a "day"
system. One day we'd go and do what Coop wanted to do, the next day we'd go and do what I
wanted to do. This evening Coop wanted to go to a titty bar. For some reason--although I am a
flaming heterosexual--I hate titty bars and normally shun them as one might avoid a leper colony,
but it was Coop's "day" so I had little choice in the matter. I wasn't happy about it, but I decided
to make the best of a rather repugnant deal.
We were standing at a corner waiting for the light to change when Coop suddenly began his litany
of self pity, "Why can't I get a woman to LOVE me? I'm sensitive, good looking, moderately rich,
but I just can't make them LOVE me! WAH!" Having heard this line of whine before, I was anxious
to nip it before he really got wound up. "Coop." I said, "You just need to have your horn trimmed."
I pointed to two working girls across the street, "Perhaps yon flatbacks might be the solution to
your problem." Coop looked at me in horror. "Are you NUTS?" He said. "Do you know how much it
would cost to get one of those girls to REALLY LOVE ME? Bill Gates couldn't afford it!" Just then
the light changed and we crossed the street. When we got to the other side we noticed that the
working girls were the size of Saints linemen and might actually have been Saints football players.
Coop looked at me and shuddered, "Great idea, Desi. . .faux 'hos. . . just what I need." Before I
could reply we were standing in front of our destination. Coop was gazing raptly at the sign above
the bar. "Look!" He said, pointing at the sign, "Nude Girls Live On Stage!" "Get a grip, Coop" I said,
"Of course nude girls live on stage. You think they're going to put dead nude girls on stage?"
Coop smiled, "In this town there might be a market for that. Let go in and check it out." This
dive had all the ambience of a Fancy Tijuana men's room, flocked wallpaper, dayglo lighting, and
thickly redolent with a weird antiseptic smell. . .like a urinal biscuit. On stage, sure enough, living
nude girls were absent-mindedly gyrating to a funky disco beat. Due to unseasonably cool
weather, though, the living nude girls were wearing panty hose. . . which gave them a rather odd
seam across their stomachs, like Playboy centerfolds. Coop ordered us a couple of drinks and
while we waited for them a scantily clad ecdysiast- well, okay, a stripper-- approached us and
said, "Hey! Do you boys know why men nickname their dicks?" We allowed as how we didn't and
she said, "So they won't be bossed around by a TOTAL STRANGER!" We made appropriate ha-ha
noises but when it became obvious that we weren't going to buy her a pricey "champagne
cocktail" she stalked off. "Coop," I said, "is that true?" Coop handed me my cocktail. "Is what
true?" "That all men nickname their dicks." "I'll tell you mine" Coop said coyly, "if you tell me
yours." "Well," I said, "when I was younger it used to be The Mighty Thor!" Coop's eyes widened
and he laughed, "Mighty Thor? Gee, how thwell!" "Yeah," I said, "but these days it's just 'Gunga
Dingus,the little waterboy.' Now, wiseguy, what's yours?" Coop puffed up a little, "Mine's Sluggo!"
Sluggo? Sluggo? All of a sudden it seemed to me that I may have inadvertently hit upon a
method of plumbing the depths of the deucedly capricious swamplands of the male libido . . .
through their Dicknames!
My thinking was: Perhaps the nickname that a man gives his penis reflects his subconscious
attitude towards sex, women, even life itself. Maybe. I gave Coop the secret BOOPM handshake,
and left him to leer at the living nude girls on stage. I grabbed a cocktail napkin, my pen, and set
out to canvass the bar for the dicknames of the various barflys and other sleazy denizens that
were there.
In Texas, you understand, it could be Very Dangerous to approach strangers in a bar with a
cocktail napkin and a pen, asking for their dick's nickname. But New Orleans isn't called the Big
Easy for nothing and dammed if not only did everyone who was asked give me his dickname, but
some seemed inappropriately proud to share the information. Here is my cocktail napkin list
(partially reconstructed the next day):
Slappy
Mr. Hilarious
Little Elvis
Spunky
Lucky Bob, The Coed's Friend
Ozzy Ozbone
Diddley Do-Right
John Wesley Hardon
Dr. Jizz
Tubby the Tuber
Smiley
Da Humpstah
Big Mike, The Heat Seeking Moisture Missle
Hector the Nectar Injector
There were also several variations of "One Eyed Trouser Snake. . .Trilobyte. . .Lizard. . .Etc.
One guy asked, "What would YOU call something that has one eye, one horn, flies, is purple, and
eats pussy?" I figured I knew the answer to that one but didn't want to gonzo my research by
getting involved. Another gentleman looked at me innocently and said, "Footlong Freddie, The
Fearless Female Furrow Finder," but his girlfriend laughed so cynically that I suspect he may have
been exaggerating. Another, curiously honest, "Sometimes Pokey. . .Sometimes Gumby."
When I'd completed my survey, I went over to the stage where Coop was frantically trying to
stick bills in a stripper's g-string, but her panty hose didn't allow money to go much further than
the waist band. A few bills had made it past the band and were trapped ludicrously between her
flesh and her panty hose. Only spare change could have made this scene more unattractive. I
found myself trying to dress these girls back up with my eyes. It was just too bizarre.
"Okay, Coop," I said, "I've got the seminal research done. This is going to revolutionize the
psychology of male sexuality!" Coop looked unconvinced. "And win us the Nobel Pecker Prize?"
Okay, sindex.htmo Stockholm may be a long way down the road, but I figured I'd gladly turn over my
thesis/research to someone more capable of handling this ground breaking
material than I.
Very gladly.
Besides, Coop, Sluggo, Mighty Thor, and me only had three more days to bring the Quarter to its
knees.
Johnny Jazz Jones