The Puppet Masters

I live with four men, so I’m pretty familiar with the penis. Everyone in my house has one but me and the dog. Frankly, I think she has penis envy, but I try not to judge.

I wouldn’t say I’m an expert on male anatomy, but after raising three boys, I’ve seen my fair share of jolly sticks. So when presented with an opportunity to see one, live on stage, I didn’t shy away. I figured I was more than prepared, but how does one really prepare for a four foot long John Thomas? There are plenty of jokes I could make here, but I’m sure you’re already filling in the blanks.

My husband first heard about Puppetry of the Penis on NPR and thought it sounded like a hilarious stage show. Never one to shy away from bizarre forms of entertainment, he snapped up four tickets to the highly acclaimed touring production. The show, consisting of two Aussie “puppeteers”, would be in Portland for one night only at the Aladdin theater.

Naturally, I had questions. Was this a real puppet show? Were these puppets that looked like penises or penises dressed like puppets? Had the Muppets ever worked with them? Was this legal? And more to the point, did their mothers know how they made a living?

My husband explained that the show was touted as “the ancient Aussie art of genital origami” and basically boiled down to two men on stage, playing with their twigs and berries. Apparently, the duo had been quite popular, touring Australia, London and most of the western world. They’d appeared on The Tonight Show and had entertained A-listers like Hugh Grant, Elton John, and the Beckhams.

This prompted more questions, specifically; had the ancient Australians really considered this to be “art”? In the 1700’s Australia had been home to a penal colony, so perhaps this had been a way to pass time in prison. But honestly, how could playing with your junk entertain a man for hours? Wait… don’t answer that. Ultimately, I became intrigued and decided if it was good enough for Vicky Becks, it was good enough for me.

We had four tickets, the big question was who did we know that wouldn’t be easily offended and also crazy enough to go with us? The answer was my sister and her husband. I could usually count on my sister to throttle up the crazy in any situation and my brother-in-law was a man with a highly developed tolerance for absurd behavior. They were the perfect pair for this gig. Between us, we’d raised four boys…the Aussies couldn’t possibly show us anything we hadn’t seen before, right?

The night of the event arrived and I developed a slight case of nerves which led to a LOT more questions. Was this show considered pornography? Was it immoral? What would my fundamentalist neighbors think if they knew? Would there be a set, a plot or musical numbers? But the most important question of the night: what does one have for dinner before seeing a penis puppet show? The answer was sausage, naturally.

The only decent offering nearby was a German restaurant across the street. Our standards weren’t very high, we just wanted a floor that wasn’t sticky with cheap beer and vomit. Not an easy task in that particular part of town. Fortunately, the restaurant was bright and bustling and best of all the atmosphere wasn’t steeped in stale cigarettes and depression.

Our waiter announced the special of the day was a hearty Verboort sausage served over a bed of sauerkraut. Considering the proximity to the theater, this is called “playing to the crowd”. We ordered four and a reasonably priced bottle of Liebfraumilch to wash it down.

Although we didn’t discuss the show we were about to see, I believe it was uppermost in our minds. More than once I caught my brother-in-law and my husband wincing as they watched me slice into my sausage. Their problem, not mine, right? Weenies.

Bellies full of Verboort we headed for the theater, grabbing another glass of wine in the lobby. The additional wine was probably a bad idea, I can see that now, but we were all a bit apprehensive and the Liebfraumilch had done little to quell our nerves.

The opening act, a female comedian, took the stage at 8 pm and worked the crowd into a comedic frenzy. After a full hour of jokes, we were primed for the show, full of anticipation, cheap wine, and sausages.

At 9:15 the theater went dark and a hush fell over the crowd as the penises prepared to take the stage. This was the moment we’d been waiting for. I gripped my sister’s hand in mine, giggling like a schoolgirl. A low murmur rippled through the audience as the lights came up on stage, and the dramatic theme music from 2001 a Space Odyssey blasted through the auditorium. The excitement was mounting, I sensed the audience was on the edge of its collective seat. We were all eager to experience the majesty of penis puppets!

Offstage, a fog machine pumped out layers of haze which rolled across the stage and wafted into the waiting audience. Suddenly a brilliant white light flashed across the stage, momentarily blinding the audience as two men appeared on opposite sides of the stage. They were dressed in garish superhero capes and nothing else.

Sharp titters of nervous laughter bounced through the audience as we took in the spectacle. Maybe “spectacle” is overstating it. I don’t know why I was surprised by the sight of two naked men in capes and tennis shoes. After all, this was exactly what we’d come to see. But it was just so plain, so ordinary, so…there.

Perhaps I’d expected to be courted a tad before the full reveal. At the very least a strip tease. I blinked, my eyes searching the stage wildly. Surely there had to be more to this show, backup dancers, a bouquet of flowers, laser light show, a powerpoint presentation perhaps? But the stage was empty except for the two puppet masters from Australia.

There they stood in all of their dubious glory. No props or gyrating dancers, just two naked men and their Don Johnsons. It did put one myth to rest; the size of the man has no correlation to the size of his assets.

After the nervous guffaws and giggles died down, the duo began contorting themselves into various shapes. They twisted their joysticks into sailboats, hammocks, flying squirrels and hamburgers all of which received huge laughs. And for those wanting an up close and personal experience, two large TV screens on either side of the stage broadcast every detail in pixelated perfection.

I could just imagine the lighting crew working overtime to ensure that the puppeteer’s wing-dang-doodles were properly illuminated. I did have to wonder what else Aussies did for entertainment. This couldn’t really be the pinnacle of Australian theatrical offerings, could it?

As the show progressed I began to grow restless. I missed the opening act. The comedian had been funny, entertaining and clothed, things the placid pecker pair sadly lacked. I had to face facts, while the show might have sounded titillating, watching a grown man play with his tallywhacker on stage is actually pretty dull. After ten minutes it had become mundane, after twenty it was like watching paint dry. After thirty minutes more wine was a necessity.

Mercifully the bar was open and my sister and I headed back for reinforcements. Eight ounces of Chardonnay later my sister and I suddenly got the joke. Not only did we see the humor in the show, we got pretty loud about it.

The audience was a fairly boisterous bunch, but they had nothing on my sister who was now yelling suggestions to the duo on stage. The atmosphere was almost carnival-like, so her near-heckling seemed appropriate at the time. Not only did I encourage my sister, I hooted and howled along with her. Our husbands, both several drinks behind us, tried their best to “shoosh” us into submission, but to no avail. The giggles kept coming, unabated.

My husband, now irritated and far too sober, did something that to this day he cannot fully explain. In an attempt to quiet us, he threw cold water on our party. Literally.

In the darkened theater my husband held his glass of water high overhead and proceeded to dump its entire contents into my lap. I gasped in shock as the cold wetness spread across my thighs, seeping into my new jeans.

My sister and I were in complete shock. We stared at my husband waiting for some explanation, but he merely shrugged his shoulders. Blinking at one another like two blind mice, my sister and I simultaneously burst into laughter, hooting like a pair of sailors on leave. Nothing was going to stop our party, not even a cold dousing of H20.

As the lights came up and we filed out of the theater, the other audience members gave me a wide berth, and with good reason. If you ever see a drunken giggling woman with a wet crotch stain, you, too, should give her a wide berth.

My sister called a few months later to tell me that Puppetry of the Penis was returning to the Aladdin soon. She wondered if my husband and I would like to go again. Naturally, I said yes. There’s always a funny opening act and an open bar in the lobby, what more could one want? My only advice to those considering tickets: if you go with a sober husband, bring a good raincoat.