“RJ is a newspaper columnist whose humor column, "Pogi from a Parallel Universe" comes out every Wednesday in the For Men section of the Philippine Star, the Editor-in-Chief of UNO Magazine, a seasoned television, events and weddings/debut host and actor."
(In honor of my youngest brother’s wedding last Saturday, allow me to share with you an excerpt from my upcoming book from Anvil Publishing I Do or I Die: RJ Ledesma’ Explosive Guide to Getting Married and Other Man-Made Disasters (As Told to him by his Yaya) that deals with a subject that all newlyweds should be thoroughly subjected to.)
We learned about family planning with the help of Makati City Hall, the Department of Health (DOH) and a wooden phallic symbol.
After enduring government-mandated mental torture with a Department of Social Welfare and Development (DSWD) pre-marriage counselor for the better part of the morning, my fiancée was ready to lubricate the wheels of City Hall bureaucracy just so that we could avoid the afternoon session with a representative from the DOH.
“But pangga (dear),” I pleaded. “We have to attend the afternoon session! It’s about family planning and responsible parenthood!”
“Tell them you will get a vasectomy!” she fumed.
“But there’s a big surprise during the session, I promise you!”
“What!?” she folded her arms. “A free Pap smear!?”
“More than just that, pangga!” I beamed. “Two years ago, a friend of mine attended the same pre-marriage session, and he said that the health official showed them something that has greatly aided in their marriage.”
My fiancée smirked. “And what exactly is that? Edible underwear? Chocolate body frosting? A face mask of Piolo Pascual?”
I scanned the area to make sure no one was in earshot. Then I turned back to my fiancée and whispered in her ear, “It was a wooden penis.”
My fiancée quickly reached into her handbag and pulled out her cellphone. “Dad, you were right about him. Please call the authorities. We’re still here at City Hall.”
“No, no, no you don’t understand.” I waved both my hands furiously in front of my face. “I mean she uses it for demonstrations during the family planning session!!”
“Stay away you sick &^$#^%@! I have five-inch heels and I am not afraid to use them!!” she shrieked.
“But we need that wooden penis, pangga! And not just for illustrative purposes, I might add.”
“We!? Weeee!? What do you mean we!? Why in God’s name would we need a wooden penis!? Is there something wrong with the one you already have!?”
I edged closer to her. “No, no it’s nothing like that at all pangga. I mean –”
I tried to explain further but it is hard to string a sentence together when five-inch heels make sudden contact with your right scrotum. “We… need… it… for… fertility.”
“Why, what do you plan to fertilize? A Barbie doll!? You’re a sick sick man!”
After several minutes of rolling around on the floor in a fetal position, I finally moaned a reply, “Pangga, that wooden penis has magical powers of fertility. Think of how effective it will be, I think, for a stressed person like me.”
“You think you’re stressed!?” she said while popping several pills of Norvasc. “I’m the one who has to marry a person who thinks a wooden penis can make hocus-pocus!”
I cupped my groin. “Pangga, before you attack my left scrotum, please hear me out.” I breathed in deeply. “I have unusually high cholesterol levels for a vegetarian. I have irregular sleeping habits. I have a stomach that breaks down more regularly than a secondhand truck on Edsa. I go to the bathroom every thirty minutes. I cannot sleep with the lights off and without yaya beside me. I have lost enough hair on my forehead for me to lease space to Shoemart. I am a victim of constant groin injury. And now, you and I are getting married. I am the product endorser for stress. And stress can cause impotence. Promise.”
“Are you saying that I am stressing you out!?” she growled.
“Noooo pangga of course not!” I insisted as a few thousand hairs on my head made way for more real estate.
“And what, pray tell, makes you think that magical wooden penis will help?”
“Those wooden penises are like fertility symbols! They go back many generations and cultures!” I reached into my clutch bag and pulled out a dog-eared copy of my book The Natural History of Love. “Look here! On Velia, one of the first hills of Rome, there was a temple dedicated to the Mutanus Tutunus who was represented in the form of a penis.” I flipped over a couple of pages. “Then here, in Tantric Shavaism, the lingam is a phallic-shaped symbol of worship for the Hindu god Shiva.” My fiancée flinched. Ah, I had her on the ropes, I thought. “And in the Philippines,” I proudly declared. “We have a symbol that is not only worshipped by souvenir hunters worldwide but also provides hours of lowbrow entertainment. Our well-endowed spring-loaded wooden barrel man from Baguio! ”
She rolled her eyes. “I wonder if we can still cancel our contract with the church.”
“Pangga, my friend tells me that after his wife visited the wooden penis, she has been pregnant every year since they got married. In fact, he has to take out a restraining order on her or else they might have a basketball team!” I gushed.
My fiancée’s eyes grew large. “You are NOT taking off that chastity belt my dad gave you when we get married.”
“Think about it, pangga! After our visit to City Hall, our babies will be more ubiquitous than the posters of Bayani Fernando on EDSA.”
She sighed. “And what are we supposed to do when we see that wooden penis? Light some incense? Give it a floral offering? Show it some dirty magazines?”
“Well, we’re –” I coughed. “We’re supposed to rub it, pangga. Vigorously.”
And her other foot found its way to my left scrotum. After I had regained sensation in my nether regions, I continued my explanation. “Love, these symbols have miraculous powers when you rub up against them! Promise. It’s like when you rub a rabbit’s foot for good luck. Or when you rub Buddha’s belly for good fortune. Or when you rub the Blarney Stone in Ireland to get the gift of language. Ask any teenage boy, he will tell you that vigorous rubbing always produces good results!”
My fiancée lifted the cellphone to her ear and muffled her mouth. “Dad, are you near? He’s scaring me.”
“And if that health worker is more accommodating, baka (maybe) we can have some take home pa! In Naples, Italy, there is an image of Saint Guignole who is depicted with a large erect, uhm, symbol which is referred to as ‘the Holy Member.’ Women actually approach the image and scrape off a splint from the Holy Member as a conception charm! You can do some scraping of your own in City Hall.”
“Please, for the love of God, stop before I make sure that both of us cannot have any children through regular means.”
“But that’s not all, pangga!” I raised my index finger into the air.
She smacked the side of her head. “How can there be more?”
“The wooden penis can also help ward off evil spirits!”
“What else can I hit you with so that you shut up?”
“No, really! Really! Did you know that in ancient Rome, they worshiped the phallic God Fascinus? Their children were made to wear erect penis-shaped amulets with wings to avert the evil eye,” I enthused. “Maybe after the DOH gives me that free vasectomy, they might also give us a matching pair of souvenir wooden penises that we can wear around our necks! Imagine what you could ward off with that amulet – muggers, kotong (corrupt) cops, Dirty Old Men (DOMs)! Heck, I’d be scared of you too if you wore a wooden penis around your neck.”
She pulled her cellphone close to her ear. “Dad, call the SWAT Team. Malala na ‘to (This is too much).”
“Think about it. That DOH representative must keep a wooden penis on her person wherever she goes! It’s with her when she takes the bus to work, when she goes to the grocery store, when she takes merienda, and when she goes to sleep at night. Man, she must be the safest woman in the world!” I flipped my arms into the air. “And aside from being a teaching device and an amulet to ward off evil, the wooden penis has other uses as well. It can be used as a conversation piece! As a confidante! And, when the need calls for it, an embarrassingly lethal weapon.”
But before my fiancée could reply, my face was crunched to the ground while a chorus of SWAT police boots rained down my back. “Fascinus, protect me!” I begged.
“Can I borrow your night stick, officer?” my fiancée’s eyes glowed fiercely. “I would like to show my husband another use for a phallic symbol.”
Later that afternoon, after my fiancée tired of showing me the several hundred ways that a batuta (nightstick) can be used on a human body, the SWAT escorted both of us into the family counseling session. I slumped down on my seat and sat beside an engaged man who looked old enough to be my grandfather. “He must have a life-size Baguio barrel man at home,” I thought. I looked up from my seat and saw our DOH representative scribbling on the board. While she scribbled away, I spied an unfamiliar bulge in her left pants pocket. “Fascinus, protect me.” And I smiled a toothless smile to myself.
But before the lecture could start, an announcement rang out in the PA system. “For the armed men who are inside City Hall: You are strongly advised to vacate these premises immediately. We have captured your photos with our closed circuit television cameras and we will not hesitate to send these pictures to the media if you attempt to commit any acts of violence inside the building.”
Normally, this type of announcement would result in my involuntary bladder discharge. Fact is, most of the people inside City Hall at that time must have spontaneously soiled their underwear when that announcement was blurted out. But as for me? Ha! I was as calm as our Chief Executive. After all, I was under the protection of a wooden penis.