I think it all starts with a can of Krylon or a simple black Sharpie and the spark of a bad idea.
A friend… let’s call him “Willy” to protect his dignity (and his permanent marker record), was fuming about his nemesis — a daily occurrence. What really irked him about this guy? His horrendously chapped lips and his penchant for eating at least three oranges at every single lunch period.
“Gawd, when is this idiot gonna learn that his lips will never heal with all those oranges he eats?”
Said nemesis had left his binder unattended on the cafeteria table, and Willy saw a moment to enact revenge… in the most petty, sophomoric manner.
“I’m gonna draw a dick on it. That’ll show him,” he said with an air of contempt mixed with adolescent creativity.
“Nah,” I told him, for I am the voice of reason in this story.
“Don’t draw the dick.”
He looked through me, eyes drawn into slits, my words creating a slight delay at some moral crossroads. But that was just a pause, a momentary attempt to resist the magnetic compulsion of the forbidden doodle.
And so, of course… he did.
He drew the dick.
The Universal Urge
Now, before you judge Willy, as I immediately did myself, let’s be honest — he’s got loads of company.
On bathroom stalls, park benches, children’s’ playgrounds, and oh-so-many ‘standard brick walls’, humanity has proven time and time again that we cannot resist the siren call of genital graffiti.
Though I can’t claim I’ve wandered to all of them, you’ll never convince me that phallic doodles aren’t lurking in every corner of the civilized world. Bold, unapologetic, and grotesquely misproportioned.
Why? Why do otherwise functional, evolved adults feel the need to take out that pen and exclaim, “I was here — and here’s a penis to prove it”?
Rebellion in its purest form?
Humor reduced like a good French sauce?
Maybe a primal urge stoked on by the cheers of a thousand pants-less ancestors?
I’m likely overthinking it, but it’s definitely some universal kind of tragedy.
There is, however, a bit of poetry in it. All these fine surfaces, from election posters to boulders on hiking trails, bearing witness to our inability to take anything (or anyone) too seriously.
A Brief (and Highly Questionable) History
Did I originally publish the above image accidentally with the D front and center? I did. This one got a post-pub makeover.
Believe it or not, humans have been drawing phallic shapes since the dawn of time.
Archaeologists have found them carved into Roman walls, sketched into medieval manuscripts, and painted onto ancient pottery. Yes, even your ancestors were out there, chipping away at marble slabs, thinking, you know what this urn really needs? A little something extra.
Michelangelo sculpted David — a literal 17-foot marble man. Was it art? Of course it was. But I also feel strong in my conviction that at least one Florentine apprentice was giggling in the legacy of immaturity. Modernity cannot claim it all, people.
If anything, the global persistence of the old shaft-and-balls graffiti might be the single unifying thread of human culture. Forget language or religion — it’s the doodle. The eternal, penile doodle.
Manhood in Modernity
Somewhere, an AI image generator has been forced to learn “anatomical graffiti.”
That’s where we are as a species. The machines have seen things. They’ve been forced to study millions of human-made masterpieces — the sunsets, the dogs, the suspiciously perfect smoothie bowls, and the D.
Imagine the neural network’s confusion:
User prompt: graffiti on a wall.
AI: detects 83% likelihood of genital art.
It’s not Chappy’s fault, folks. Humanity has fed it a buffet of inappropriate data. Somewhere in Silicon Valley, a team of programmers is frantically tweaking filters because the model keeps producing schlong-shaped clouds.
We’ve come a long way from cave drawings, and yet… we haven’t.
We’ve made so many technological advances, and still, some guy’s out there zooming in on a digital canvas, thinking, “Heh. What if I just add…”
It’s the unstoppable combo of opposable thumbs and poor judgment.
Psychology of the Doodle
Does this Johnson obsession have anything to do with anatomy at all?
My love of those who bring art to the streets almost requires me to give my attention to your creativity and imagination wherever you place it. A quick scroll through my profile and you’ll see I’m a prolific photographer of outdoor street art — stencils, tags, murals, the works. And, bad street art often captures my attention for slightly longer… like a meditation in humility.
“Not-so-Mighty Mouse?”
“Erm, just someone who needs more practice with the spray paint, Mom,” my 11-year-old artistic wizard says. “At least it’s not a penis.”
“Good point,” I say, nodding in agreement.
“And why’s it never a vulva? Sometimes boobs, but never a vulva. I mean, those two things don’t even… ‘go together,’” she says, slightly exasperated.
“Hierarchy? Faulty dopamine pathways? It’s a psychological mystery to me, but one day you’ll learn that motorboats aren’t just for lakes, so there’s at least a little ‘go together’,” I counter.
Yes, out on the streets, the V is clearly not gettin’ as much love as the D.
The Inevitable I Told You So
So back to me and Willy. There he was standing over his enemy’s binder, admiring his bold, yet anatomically questionable masterpiece. He looked proud; triumphant even.
Two days later… I kid you not… his dad was grabbing him by the scruff and marching him over to his enemy’s house where he was forced to stand on the front porch and say the words, “Sorry I drew that penis on your binder.” Oh, the seething contempt he must have felt.
He also got a day of in-school, and I got the satisfaction of saying the most sacred of all sacred scoldings:
“I told you so.”
But, I fear, this little anecdote won’t even make a dent.
Not all of you out there will heed my alliterative advice:
“Don’t draw the dick.”
But I offer the humble heart as a welcome alternative.
The dicks will, of course, continue to be drawn.
The eternal urge too strong; the markers too plentiful.
So cling to your Sharpies, your spray paint, your seeming lack of awareness of what a penis actually looks like, and keep fighting the good fight against boredom and authority by plastering our world with your doodle of choice.
Thanks for being here. New rhythm going forward: weekly personal essays, plus a monthly newsletter that will irresponsibly and unjustly try to connect the dots. I’ve been gone for many moons… No just reasons, only excuses, but I’ll make none. If you’d like to support my work, consider this my pledge to show up more consistently and spray less half-baked penis energy onto the wall.
Hysterical! I laughed at every twist and turn. Super fun to read out loud at a party. And the best advice I’ve heard in a long time.
You’re quite the writer Abby!