Used to work with a woman whose family referred to male thingies as Poochies, and female thingies as Chickens. She didn't know why, the tags had come down through her mom's family for at least three generations. After working with her for many years, and being a sort of aunt to her daughter, I still think of those appelations. Sometimes, I still burst into a braying laugh when an innocent context conjures up the absurd image. "Her chicken had not been adequately plucked," comes to mind.

A sports writer with whom we worked had an annoying habit of constantly (and, I DO mean constantly) adjusting, lifting, moving, feeling, his privates through his clothing. He became known within local media (and police) circles as the "poochie plucker."