A Point of Personal Privilege, I suppose

I don’t want to comment about the TSA foofaraw. I haven’t anything new or insightful to say. But I do, finally, feel compelled to say one thing that I have yet not heard as a comment on the discussion of this whole matter. And it is this: I do not refer to my privates as junk.

I have a penis. I have testicles. I have a scrotum.

They ain’t junk.

Sometimes I will refer to phlegm and mucous as junk. That’s because it is unwanted and when I have it anyway, I am trying to get rid of it. In other words, junk. A fair amount of that stuff ends up in the wastebasket, where it eventually gets thrown in the big garbage can, picked up and dumped in the dump. Unlike my genitalia, which I prefer to keep.

Even my asshole isn’t junk. It isn’t really useless trash; it performs a service reasonably well, under the circumstances, and although it ain’t my favorite bit of me, it ain’t junk neither.

My privates certainly are not junk. I hope yours aren’t junk, either, but if they are, well, I pity you. But mine? Not junk. My cock, my naughty bits, my maleness, my organ (it’s organ, organ, organ all day long with you) of progeniture, my little head, my john thomas, my schlong, my johnson, my tom dick and harry, my nuts, my cojones or my juevos, my short and curlies, even my place where the sun does not shine, all of those, truth be told, are so far from being junk that I consider them, not to put to fine a point on it, my family jewels.

Not junk.

Jewels.

Honestly, people.

Tolerabimus quod tolerare debemus,
-Vardibidian.