PARDON MY OOSIK

     I'm always amused when I see those commercials on TV for erectile dysfunction drugs. You've all seen them.  

     "For erections lasting longer than four hours, consult a physician."

     For me, a four-hour erection would be a blessing, though not in the way you think. 

     I'm a walrus. Call me Wally. That's not my real name; my parents had more imagination than that. But I'd rather not tell you my real name, as I'm trying to keep a low profile. 

     Literally.

     Do you know what an oosik is? It's the term used in Alaska to describe my baculum, a.k.a. my penile bone. I don't want to get too graphic, but an oosik can be as large as two feet long.               

     All the time.

     Lucky me, you say? I don't think so. I live in Alaska. Native Alaskans are the only people currently allowed to hunt walruses, and an oosik is considered a prized possession. Not just by lady walruses, sadly, but also as souvenirs by tourists. They can be polished and used as handles for knives and other tools. 

     So, when I go out, I try to disguise my walrusness. I wear a long, hooded, unbelted kaftan, standing upright on my hindquarters. Unfortunately, there's not much I can do to hide my tusks. (Or the bulge in my kaftan.) I thought about having my dentist file them down, but I need my tusks. The longer the tusk is, the more important a walrus's rank is in the walrus community, and my rank is pretty high, if I say so myself. Although if they could see me skulking around in my Kaftan, my staus would plummet. Also, we bull walruses use our tusks to joust with each other to earn the right to mate. And I am NOT giving that up.

     One day I went into a bar in the middle of the afternoon. I don't usually drink before cocktail hour, but I was under a lot of stress (as usual), and I thought a beer would take the edge off.

     Before I even made it to the bar, the bartender yelled, "Hey! Horse-whale!" ("Walrus" comes from the Old Norse word "hrossvalr," meaning "horse-whale." It's considered a very derogatory term in the walrus world.) "Can't you read?" he said, pointing to a sign on the wall. It read, "No credit. No checks. No semi-aquatic mammals."

     "Are you speaking to me?" I said.

     "Hit the bricks, Wally!" he said. Again, not my name, but idiots like this guy like to call us that. God grant me serenity!

     "Look," I replied calmly, "I'm just a humble pinniped trying to have a beer and retain his oosik."

     Now, I'm a big guy, weighing in at about 4,500 pounds. (I really ballooned up after I went off Atkins.) Maybe that had something to do with it, but in any case the bartender thought for a moment and finally said, "Okay, what'll you have?"

     "What do you have on tap?"

     "Just what you see," he said, pointing to a row of draught beer taps.

     I looked at the taps. I couldn't believe my eyes. The tap handles were oosiks!

     "What'll I have?" I shouted. "What'll I have? How about a mug of Uncle Herb! Or a pitcher of Cousin Wally!" (Uncle Herb and Aunt Doris had no imagination.)

     "Uncle Herb?" said the bartender, confused. "Who's Uncle Herb?"

     "He was a prince of a guy who was cut down in his prime and relieved of his bullhood by some murderous Inuit bastard! Along with my Cousin Wally! And now, for all I know, you could be drawing me a beer with one of their bacula!"

     "Their what?"

     "Don't play dumb! Their penile bones!"

     "Oh, you mean the handles?"

     "Yes, of course I mean the handles!"

     "Don't get your whiskers in a bunch, Wally" he replied. "Those are reproductions."

     "Reproductions? Really?"

     "Yes, really," he said reassuringly. His tone had softened. He poured me a beer and said, "this one's on me."

     I sat down. "Thanks," I said. I calmed down as I drank the beer. Then I drank another, and another. The bartender and I got to know each other over the course of the next few hours. I told him my real name and he told me his. His name was Toby. (Apparently he had creative parents.) He wasn't such a bad guy after all. 

     I settled my tab, left a generous tip, pulled up the hood of my kaftan and headed for the door.

     The bartender called out, "be careful out there." 

     "I will, Toby," I said. "Thanks."

     And I was. I took the usual back alleys back to Walrustown, thinking I had made a new friend. And maybe an ally in my fight to hang onto my oosik.

     Bad choice of words, but you get the idea.