“Why Are Those Women Doing This To Me?” Accused Celebrity Complains.

Everyone Knows That Waving Your Weenie Is Just A Humorous Ice-Breaker When You Meet New People

By David Wilaru* (David Wilaru’s bio appears at the end of this story)

Utilizing one of my special, secret sources I have obtained the transcript of a recent “Help-Me-Deal-With-Getting-Outed-For-Inappropriate-Sexual-Conduct” therapy session between Dr. Harvey Algood and Mr. [Name Withheld To Avoid Me Getting My Pants Sued Off].

For the sake of brevity, let’s just call the patient “Johnny Surprised.”

* — — * — — *

“Johnny, how are you doing?”

“Let me tell you, Doc, it’s been rough. I haven’t been able to tweet anything for two days!”

“Don’t worry, Johnny, we’ll get you through this. Tell me what you’re feeling right now. If you had to name just one emotion that you’re experiencing, what would it be?”

“Shock, I guess. No, surprise. I never saw this coming. Just, BAM, out of the blue. I mean, I thought those women were my friends.”

“I’m hearing more than just surprise. I’m sensing that you’re feeling a little bit betrayed.”

“Yes! Thank you. I mean, why would they do this to me?”

“Did they give you any sign that they didn’t want to see you naked?”

“No, nothing. Gee, if they didn’t want to see my penis why didn’t they tell me that right up front. If they had just said, I don’t know, ‘Keep your pants on’ or ‘I don’t want you grabbing my pussy,’ I never, ever, would have whipped it out, but, hell, I’m not a mind reader.”

“I understand, but maybe–”

“But that’s what women do, isn’t it? They never say what they want straight out. They expect us to read their minds. Well, excuse me. Hey, Sally! I can’t read your fucking mind!”

“That’s good, Johnny. Let it out. Let it all out.”

Johnny sobs then dries his eyes.

“Thanks, doc, I appreciate that. It’s been so hard for me.” Sniffles, then blows his nose.

“It’s OK, Johnny. This is a safe place for you. . . . So, getting back to how this all played out, you’re telling me that none of seven women gave you any signals that they weren’t open to having a little of this and a little of that?”

“No, nothing. If any of them had said, ‘Don’t show me your penis,’ I never would have pulled it out. They could have given me a little warning. I know I made some mistakes, but I’m not the only one at fault here.”

“I understand your frustration, Johnny. . . . Looking over my notes, I see that two of the women claimed that you invited them to your hotel room to discuss the possibility of their being hired as your personal assistants and that when you closed the door they saw that you were naked. Did that actually happen?”

“Well, yeah, but it wasn’t like it sounds, like hostile or something. Mr. Johnson wasn’t hard or sticking up or anything. To tell you the truth, he was pretty limp.”

“That’s an important fact that the media has omitted. So, you’re saying that there was no penis aggression there?”

“No, no penis aggression at all. Just the opposite. It was no big deal. All I did was lift him up and wave him at them, like ‘Hello.’ Then I broke out laughing. It was a joke! Everybody does it. They were, what, twenty, twenty-one, so we were all adults. Doesn’t anybody have a sense of humor anymore?”

“I understand your frustration, Johnny, I really do, but you have to realize that not everyone has the same sense of humor that we do. You and I might laugh at a fat man slipping on a banana peel but somebody else, maybe a heavy person who’s been fighting advancing obesity, might not see it the same way.”

“I hear what you’re saying. Just because I think that a big star suddenly whipping out his Johnson and waving it at you is hilarious, that doesn’t mean that Little Miss Kansas Churchchoir is going to get the joke. . . . Wow, you’ve really taught me something.”

“I think we’re making good progress here, Johnny. The key we have to keep in mind is that some people have, let’s call it an exposed nerve–”

“A hot button,” Johnny interjected.

“Yes, right, a hot button, and if you hit it, no matter how innocently, they’re likely to react in a way you’re not expecting.”

Johnny gently shook his head and got a faraway look in his eyes.

“Yeah, yeah,” he said softly. “I get that now.”

“Is it true that when your receptionist, Ms. Hotbody, dropped off some papers at your house that you pulled down your pants and said, ‘Hey, look, Mr. Happy is working again’?”

“Was that wrong?” Johnny asked, a confused expression clouding his face. “Let tell you, I’ve been in the Industry a long time and if anyone had ever told me that taking out my penis and pleasuring myself in front of one of the secretaries was frowned upon, then I never would have done it.”

“I hear you saying that you’re feeling blindsided.”

“Well, yeah. I mean if women are going to make up all these rules all of a sudden then they should give us a little warning. Write them down someplace like:

  • You can’t take out your penis.
  • You can’t walk into the room naked.
  • You can’t masturbate in front of people.
  • You can’t grab a girl’s boobs.
  • You can slide your hand up a job-applicant’s skirt.
  • You can’t tell the new secretary that you’d love to hear the sounds she’d make if you fucked her in the ass.

“Jeez, give me a break,” Johnny continued. “Put them in a book or something so we can all know what they are.”

“I hear you saying that you never would have done those things if the women had given you fair warning that they found those sorts of activities unwelcome.”

“It’s like they changed the rules on me after the game had already started. Like for years we’ve been laughing at Polish jokes and now, suddenly, everybody’s pretending they’re racist or something.”

“Pretending. Interesting. Are you saying that you think your accusers’ claimed emotional distress is not real?”

Johnny leaned forward and lowered his voice. “Come on. This is all about the publicity.”

“You saying that these women aren’t really as upset as they claim?”

“I think that when Sally Whatever got together with her girlfriends the day after I took it out she was all:

‘Guess what I saw.’

‘What?’

‘Johnny Surprise’s penis.’

‘No! For real?’

‘Oh, it was for real all right.’

‘What was it like?’

‘It was OK, you know, bigger than normal. Sort of a peachy kind of pink. It kind of matched the color of my nipples.’

‘So, it wasn’t weird or deformed or anything?’

‘No. Actually, it was kind of cute.’

‘How big do you think it would it have gotten if he’d been, you know, excited?

‘I don’t know. Pretty big.’

‘Do you think if you’d pulled up your skirt–’ Johnny said, his face becoming animated.

“OK, Johnny, that’s enough. I’ve got the picture.”

Johnny took a deep breath and leaned back in his chair.

“I’m just saying. Hey, these girls come off all, ‘Boo hoo. I’m so upset,’ but really, women get off on seeing a celebrity’s equipment. We’re not like regular people.

“Sure, maybe they don’t especially want to see the mailman’s junk or the guy who checks their groceries at the Safeway, but women love to tell their girlfriends what a famous guy’s johnson looks like. Hey, I was just giving them something to talk to their friends about and now all of a sudden I’m the bad guy.”

“I understand, Johnny. I do. But nobody’s got a time machine so we have to deal with this situation in the here and now so that you can move on with your life.”

“Yeah, you’re right, Doc. How long do you think it’ll be before I can reactivate my Twitter account?”

Doctor Algood frowned and gave his head a little shake. “At least a year,” he said finally.

“A year! I can’t go Twitterless, tweetless, whatever, for a year. Why so long?”

“Well, we’re going to have to wait at least a couple of months for this to die down. Then it will be two or three months more after that before you can go on Access Hollywood and tell them how much therapy is helping you but that it’s a process and you have to work on this condition one day at a time.

“Then you’ll need to spend some more time getting photographed volunteering at various charitable organizations, maybe have someone take a picture of you autographing a teddy bear for some little kid dying of cancer. If you can you cut sheet rock, Habitat For Humanity is always looking for good nail-pounders.”

“And then things will be back to normal?”

“They’ll be better, but you still won’t be out of the woods.”

“Oh man, this is a nightmare.”

“Don’t worry, Johnny. I’ll be there for you every step of the way. A year from now, as far as your fans are concerned you’ll be completely rehabilitated.”

“A year?” Johnny sighed then finally said, “OK, I guess if I have to, I can do a year.”

“I know you can. Our time is just about up. Have Silvia make an appointment for you for the day after tomorrow.”

“So soon?”

“The media’s watching. They need to see you getting some heavy-duty counseling. Three sessions a week until they stop following you.”

Johnny stood and turned toward the door, then paused in mid-step.

“Silvia? Is she the brunette who checked me in? She’s got a great smile.”

“Johnny,” Algood said as his patient was grabbing the knob. “She’s not your type.”

“Lesbo, huh? Thanks for the heads up, but I’ve been known to bring girls back to the home team.”

“Johnny,” Algood called after him with an edge in his voice, “remember, you can’t be whipping it out anymore.”

“Sure, Doc,” Johnny Surprise said, smiling, “No more whipping it out, not unless they really, really want to see it.”

— David Wilaru (Dwilaru@gmail.com)

David Grace is sometimes alleged to be Mr. Wilaru’s alter-ego (www.DavidGraceAuthor.com)

To see a searchable list of all David Grace’s columns in chronological order, CLICK HERE

To see a list of David Grace’s columns sorted by topic/subject matter, CLICK HERE.

To see all of David Grace’s Wilaru stories, CLICK HERE

  • David G. Wilaru, A Brief Biography

David Wilaru’s early employment was in the creative paperwork allocation and re-allocation sector, but he always knew that his true calling was to be a Wordsmith.

After his divorce from his wife, Sharon, whom Mr. Wilaru once described as: “…as frigid as a penguin in a KitchenAid,” he pursued his dream of a writing career with a stint drafting product manuals for Godzilla Brothers, Inc., penning the user manuals for such cutting-edge Godzilla Brothers’ products as the Delilah Magic Hedge Trimmer, the Trident Electric Fork and Wordbuster, the world’s first solar powered fountain pen.

After leaving Godzilla Brother following his unfortunate involvement with Dr. Werner Buick’s Thirty Day Plan and overcome with ennui, Mr. Wilaru founded SCRAP, The Surrender Company Representing All People, a project that, unfortunately, led to his brief confinement in the Feldman-Margolis Memorial Psychiatric Ward where he edited the patient newsletter, Four Soft Walls.

After his release from the Feldman-Margolis Center, Mr. Wilaru accepted a position as a slogan writer with the 1001 Adult Greeting Cards For All Occasions Company of East Los Angeles, Inc. where he diligently honed his creative talents.

Thereafter, Mr. Wilaru went on to hold a senior public relations position with the Silicon City medical appliances company, BodySpares, Inc. where he directed the marketing effort for the Mirage Artificial Pancreas 690 RG.

After BodySpares’ unfortunate difficulties with the SEC, Mr. Wilaru joined the start-up, Xcitement, Inc., where he designed the marketing campaign for the Xcitement Confidential Adviser (popularly known as “The Brain Box”) and single-handedly coined the slogan “Get Sane At Warp Speed.”

After Xcitement’s sudden bankruptcy, Mr. Wilaru took over as the head of Marketing and Public Relations for Memories-R-Us, Inc. where he directed the advertising strategy for The Dog Box and other Memories-R-Us products.

It was during this high-tech marketing period that, in his spare time, Mr. Wilaru wrote his first paperback novel, the moderately successful Grip Melman, Garbage Detective: The Case Of The Hostess In The Can.

After the unfortunate litigation generated by the book’s Second-Printing Party, Mr. Wilaru obtained a position as a free-lance writer and later as a staff reporter for The American Inquisitor Weekly News Magazine, a post which he still holds today.

A self-described obsessive-compulsive Wordsmith, Mr. Wilaru regularly writes about subjects of topical interest including Gay Marriage, Hollywood Culture, the rapid growth of Amnesiology, the Patriot Act, Middle East Developments, and his specialty, UFO Babies, together with other matters of broad general appeal.

All 50 of David Wilaru’s columns are collected in The Wilaru Chronicles available at Amazon.

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David Grace

David Grace

Graduate of Stanford University & U.C. Berkeley Law School. Author of 16 novels and over 400 Medium columns on Economics, Politics, Law, Humor & Satire.