Big Daddy, Cock Hudson, Unihorn, Richard Dixon, Carl, One-Eyed Willie, Casanova, Sir Lancelot, Ralph.
You see where I'm going with this. If you’re a dude, chances are good that you've dubbed your dick.
Ever since I read Forever… by Judy Blume in junior high, I’ve been aware that guys have a penchant for naming their junk. I can appreciate the package as much as the next girl, I just don't need to be on a first-name basis with it.
I’ve got a few names for your Johnson, Junior, and none of them are found in the Big Book of Baby Names. Your little Richard doesn’t have a birth certificate, it doesn’t have a separate heartbeat, and it doesn’t merit a name. While my lady bits are remarkable, I’m not christening them and requesting a Social Security Number. They are much-loved, and yet remain nameless.
Your constant cumpanion needs to be put in its place, namely your drawers. And I know just the thing to turn Voldemort's Wand into He Who Shall Not Be Named.
Say hello to my little friend. Its name is Left Fist and it's ready to, uh, whack these upstarts into global amnesia anonymity. A penis by any other name would sound as beat.
(On a related note, if you're a chick who has given a pet name to your puss, belly up to the bar for your own cocktail of hurt.)