One of my friends is an award-winner. Last year, I presented him with the Caldecott Medal for Only Whipping It Out In Public One Time. This is not to be confused with the Caldecott Medal for children’s literature, which is worth winning.

Here’s how my buddy earned his medal:

It was a Friday evening and we were stuck in one of Edmonton’s more rancid night spots because our friend, a local stand-up comedian I’ll call Chico, was involved in an ongoing competition and needed audience votes.

I was sitting with my friend, who I’ll call Groucho, and another friend, Zeppo. We’d just received watered-down drinks from a tooth-deficient waitress and Zeppo was staring at his beverage with despair. 

“Freshen your drink, guv’nor?” he muttered in a passable Cockney accent. And, though our waitress did not have such an accent, it wouldn’t have been misplaced on her. Nor would we have been surprised to be accosted by 19th-century London prostitutes who hadn’t bathed in a year. It was that kind of place, and that kind of night.

We were soon confronted, not by a Whitechapel whore, but another local comedian. I’ll call her Harpo. Harpo wanted to know if we were friends of Chico’s. We admitted it.

“Oh, you know, he won last week,” she told us. “But a lot of people say he really shouldn’t have.”

“It’s funny you say that,” I said, “because he told us a lot of whining maggots who weren’t good enough to win had been complaining about the results.”

For some reason, Harpo decided to stop talking to me at that point. She turned her attention to Groucho. I didn’t hear exactly what she said because I was humming to myself and pretending I really was in Whitechapel, which was starting to look good by comparison. I did get the impression that she was alternating between talking smack about Chico and laying a full cougar on poor Groucho. And she would not, would not go away.

I was brought back to the bar by the sound of Zeppo yowling,

“For the love of God, man, what did you do that for?”

I turned my head to see that Harpo was gone, Zeppo was pale, and Groucho was zipping up his pants. 

“What just happened here?” I asked, giving the false impression that I wanted to know. 

“She was badmouthing Chico,” Groucho said with a shrug. “She kept saying, ‘Tonight we’ll see what everyone’s got.’ I said, ‘Here’s what I’ve got.’”

“Huh,” I said. Then I asked Groucho something I have to ask him on a distressingly frequent basis. “Do you think she’s telling security? Should we go?”

“We need a rule,” Zeppo said. He was wavering a little on his barstool. “Right now. New rule. No whipping it out where I can see it.” 

“Me either,” I said. 

“She didn’t see anything,” Groucho told us. 

“I did,” Zeppo said. 

“I didn’t,” I said. “She really didn’t see anything? She was standing right behind you.”

“Shut up,” Groucho advised.

I did, and we watched the show, and Chico won. Months later, Groucho made the mistake of arguing that he was a restrained and classy guy because, after all, he had only ever whipped it out in public the one time.

Hence the Caldecott Medal. Which he complains about, thinking it somehow unfair.

What he doesn’t realize is that he was lucky not to be given the Newberry Medal for Whipping It Out Two Feet Away From Two Different Women And Not Having The Thing Spotted By Either Of Them.