April hath put a spirit of youth in everything. --William Shakespeare

Yes, spring certainly is revitalizing. The sun is out but there's a chill in the air, and it makes you just want to run outside to play and come back hours later smelling of dirt. Makes you feel like a kid again. Let's all take a deep breath together. Ready?

iiiinnnnnnnnnnnnnn...and ouuuuuuuttttttt. That felt good. Do you feel good? I do. I feel great. I'm glad we took that moment together. Happy spring, you guys. Thanks for sharing that with me.

Now, what was I going to write about? Oh yeah. Let's draw some dicks.

I, myself, do not recall ever attempting to draw a penis. I'm not very artistic, although I will, on occasion, admire someone else's drawing of a penis. Am I an expert? Far from it. I'm not here to instruct, but rather to explore, analyze, and hopefully...(humble face)...inspire.

The first thing you must consider when delving into the topic of dick art is how your post title will look on your blog friends' sidebars. It's hard to believe, but there are bloggers out there who might not appreciate your artistic spirit livening up their blogrolls:

Roseann's Musings, Ramblings, Ponderings, and Thoughts

Health Care Reform? Oh, brother...

Confessions of a Loling Blogger

Teh unicorns are made of win!

Getting Snarky with God

Rest in Peace, Mr. Fluffyknickers

Photos from Heaven

Raindrops dangling from flower petals, part 7

Steam Me Up, Kid

I draw dicks and balls real good

I know, you're thinking, "That penis at the bottom really spruces up the joint! I'd be honored to promote that blog post on my sidebar!" and I would second that sentiment, and that, my friendish, is why we're both here right now. Exploding fistbump.

But, out of respect, consider hiding your dick post behind a "title beard", such as a googled quote about springtime by some dead pretentious schmo. Bonus points if it includes the word "hath".

I would be remiss if I didn't give credit to Sarah P at Naked Cupcakes, who if you aren't reading yet, you should be, because she's fucking hilarious. She sent me a lovely card in the mail recently which was the inspiration for this post. She writes:

Dear Becky,

I love dicks. I draw them all day and all night. Dicks dicks dicks. Eat em up yum. Dicks on the brain. Can't get enough. But recently, I've developed doubts about my dicks. I need your help. Tell me honestly, do my balls look right? Love, Sarah P

Sarah P, I completely understand your artistic choices with regard to balls. We are all well aware that balls don't come individually wrapped in separate little cherry-like scrotums. But what choice do we have, as artists, and as women who love our men. Sometimes, the truth hurts.

What would you have us do, men??

WHAT WOULD YOU HAVE US DO??

See what I mean? You done good, Sarah. Long live cherryballs.

But you got me to thinking, Sarah. How important are balls in penis art? I believe inclusion of balls should be examined on a case-by-case basis. For example, I came upon this chalk illustration on the playground recently:

See? No balls. But what does "Happy Birthday Giant Cock Friend" (chalk on asphalt, 2009) have that most other dick drawings don't have? Friendship. And cake. How important are balls when we have friendship and cake? That's a question for the ages, my friends.

Now that we've opened the door to various media, I realize that what I said before about not having much dick drawing experience, while true, did not take into account my expertise in the Pancake Arts.

In my experience, the best thing about pancake dicks is pretending you didn't intend to fashion the pancake in the shape of a dick at all. When my friends come to visit with their kids, I serve up my giant phallic flapjacks that are so obscenely long (thank you, 20" skillet) that half the shaft hangs off the side of the plate, syrup dribbling suggestively off the tip, and their kids go YUM!! and other appreciative words that are muffled on account of their mouths being crammed with buttery testicles, and my friends make angry faces at me and I go

Me: What? What's the problem?

Friend: You know what's the problem. Stop feeding my kids dick-shaped breakfast foods.

Me: Dick-shaped? What's wrong with you? For your information, these are elephant heads, sicko.

I'm sorry, I'm still not seeing it.

Kid 1: I love elephant pancakes!!

Kid 2: Mommy, his trunk is longer than my trunk! I want a longer trunk!

Me: Oh, you know what though? Yours is thicker. That's what counts.

Friend: I think maybe Auntie Becky needs to see a special doctor.

Kid 1: Look at me! I'm a sword swallower! *dangles wangcake above mouth*

Friend: I just died a little in my heart.

Me: Your kids sure do love elephants, huh. Where's my camera?

My point is, when considering dick art, free your mind. The age of the pen-on-spiral doodling horny virgin teen has come to an end. We are entering a renaissance of dick art, with the introduction of photoshop and paint programs. But before we look ahead, we must look back, because those who ignore history are doomed to repeat it, and I think we can all agree that human civilization has endured enough of those nubby little cherubic wangs. I'm looking at you, Baroque period. Never again.

So here we go, a look back. I've worked really hard on this. It was difficult, because as you can probably guess by now I have trouble staying focused sometimes, especially when it comes to stuff like history, but I think I did a good job. I hope it's not too cerebral. I really want you to like it. So nervous!!! Squeee!!

And now, I humbly present, my blog thesis...

The Complete World History of Dicks in Art

Part 1

Early Dick Art: Stuff in Europe

The DaVinci Choad

Quick side note:

Something I won't eat because it looks like Marilyn Manson's penis.

Oh my God, this one's even worse.

It looks like a zombie rising from the grave, boner first.

Hahaha!! Epic ham fail lol!!

Intermission:

Storm Troopers riding dogs!

Conclusion: Modern Dick Art

The Birth of Photoshop

Totally brought it full circle.

I know what you're thinking. You're thinking, why. Why write about dick art? It's vulgar and pointless, and adds nothing to the blogosphere. And maybe you're right.

I will admit, I had my doubts too. But yesterday morning, as I sat in bed thinking about whether this topic was worth the time and effort, I received a sign from God on my closet door.

Yes, that's right. It's a pregnant woman with a giant dangly cock. Now, I'm not saying this shadow is something akin to a visit from the angel Gabriel or that I am some kind of modern-day Mary chosen by God to bring forth unto you the gift of the penii, but I do happen to be a mother of dog, and I am a virgin (airways frequent flyer) so, I mean, come on.

Or I guess it could have been the pregnant naked tranny standing over by my window when I took this photo. But I like the chosen by God thing better. Let's go with that.

We're not calling it brain surgery. We're calling it semi-permanent tampon hat. Just go with it.

Me: How was your playdate, pup?

Farley: Bullshit. Seriously. That was a bullshit playdate. Don't ever take me back there.

Me: Why? You didn't have fun?

Farley: No, no fun at all. I don't even remember most of it, that's how bullshit is was.

Me: Seems like you made lots of nice friends there, though. Lots of nice ladies came to say goodbye when you left.

Farley: Yeah, that's true. I got plenty of kisses, but still. Zero playtime. That place sucks.

Me: What did you do while you were there?

Farley: You know what's weird? I don't even know. I took a nap, and then I was tired so I took another nap, and ...*sigh*... I'm sorry, I can't even focus right now because I have the WORST fucking headache. Like, splitting headache.

Me: Oh, really? That's weird.

Farley: Do I look okay? Look at me, do I look different to you? Do I look sick? Because my head is just pounding like you wouldn't believe.

Me: You look fine to me. Nothing out of the ordinary. 

Farley: You sure? Look closer. Something just feels...off. 

Me: Hmmm.

Farley: I look the same as I did when I went in there?

Me: Actually, I think you're even more handsome now.

Farley: Heh. I am pretty handsome.

Me: *covers all the mirrors*

Farley: What are you doing? 

Me: Nothing.

Been spendin' most my life, ridin' on a gangsta's motorized stair seat

I woke up in my bed last Saturday morning, shivering and wondering why my lips felt like a tempurpedic neck pillow, wearing a short black dress and one high heel. I had been dreaming about a life as a Russian acrobat, which I knew without even checking meant I had fallen asleep wearing a thong.

I limped unevenly to the bathroom, 5'7" on one side and 5'3" on the other.

High heel, bare foot...

Click, plop... click, plop... click, plop...

tall, short... svelte, dwarf... queen of the world, troll doll...

I pulled Hoodie and pj bottoms out of my pile of laundry limbo, redressed, and sat on the toilet in my thinking position--pajama pants down around ankles, chest on thighs, arms dangling, face in panties like a little head hammock. So comfy.

I remembered a marachino cherry.

There was another cherry, later. An orange slice too.

Sugar on the rim.

Lime wedge in the bottle. Like in Mexico. Damn, that gets me every time. I love Mexico.

I will drink anything if it has a cherry or some kind of fruit or accessory in/hanging off the glass. You know those plastic monkeys that hang by their tails off the rim? Done. You could fill a martini glass up with phlegm and kitty litter and hang a monkey off the glass and maybe an umbrella, and I'd be all, "Holy crap is this a party or what? This drink sure tastes like vacation!"

I remembered my drink order at dinner: "I want that foamy drink with the round thing bobbing around in it. I want to say frankenberry, but that's not right. Dingleberry? Help me out. Floaty thing."

(If you're interested, it was a CRANberry.

*smug Trebek pause*

CRAN. berry.

*taps answer cards*)

I love festivities. I'm like a 15-year old boy who ejaculates in his jeans before his girlfriend has even begun to fiddle with his zipper. I'm like him, only with fun. Or even the suggestion of fun. Those floating cranberries and plastic monkeys dry hump my brain until I ejaculate seratonin in my metaphorical jeans. Yeah, I just wrote that.

My funjaculation condition doesn't apply to just drinks though. I'm not a big drinker. Now I realize I can't keep posting about drunk bachelorette trips and lessons in how to be photographed drunk and continue to be all "Heavens above, I can't even remember the last time I consumed liquah, I wouldn't even know what to order." *coy eyes over Southern belle fan*

I sound like a hypocrite, but I'm not. I'm not a big drinker, but I'm a master celebrator, is what I am. A master 'brator. Okay, yes, I forced that. It's embarrassing. Let's move on.

It's not just the drinks. It's carnivals (Oh my God, get off the highway NOW, I see a ferris wheel I WANT A CHURRO GOGOGO!!) or elaborately decorated cakes (I want the piece with the Superman, but I also want a rose and a balloon and a corner piece, so maybe Gerrymander it around a bit when you're cutting, m'kay? I don't care if my piece looks like Tajikistan, just make it happen) or any Journey song (*air punch, air punch, air punch, scary rock n' roll face*) or Jai Ho (*delicate Bollywood turny wrists, serious multicultural face*) I just get too excited sometimes.

Yesterday I went over to visit my Nana at my mom's house, dressed in my workout clothes because really I was there to use the treadmill, not to visit Nana, but I like to pretend I'm just killing time on the treadmill until Nana wakes up, but Nana never wakes up. If she were a goldfish she'd be the kind who's been resting on the rocks at the bottom of the tank with the same delicate tendril of poop hanging from her ass for so long that you decide to flush her and all of a sudden just as you've said your goodbyes to your Nanafish laying there in the net scooper, she opens one eye and you're like WAIWAIWAIT SHE'S ALIVE and everyone feels super bad for almost flushing Nana and you never talk about it again. Man, I am KILLING with the metaphors today.

Frankly, I wouldn't know what to say to her if she did ever wake up. Maybe I could talk about our common interests, like breathing:

Me: Breathe any good air lately?

Nana: *breathe*

Me: Oh, dang girl, save some for me!

Nana: *wink* *breathe* *sleep*

Me: You crazy, Nana.

So anyway, I showed up in my workout gear at around noon and discovered a half-empty frozen margarita machine sitting in the patio from a party the night before, promptly funjaculated, removed my sports bra and running shoes and began to gather beautiful flowers with which to decorate my drink.

And you know the saying, "Where there's a half-empty margarita machine, there's leftover fish tacos," right? So true.

And you know the saying, "I'd rather drink alone for the right reasons then drink with other people for the wrong ones?" Also true. It was hard, but I think I did the right thing.

And you know the saying, "It's better to have had a few drinks by yourself on a lovely spring day and then taken a ride on Nana's motorized stair-seat and broken the motor from over-enthusiastic make-believe gangsta hydraulics than it is to have never taken a ride on Nana's motorized stair seat at all?" No? Well, write it down. Words to live by.

Seeking the answers, part 1: Open up for the choo-choo!

I've stumbled upon an Internet goldmine. At first glance, it appeared to be some kind of "Yahoo! Answers" for refined, cultured types. A site where erudite, sophisticated people come together to seek the answers to life's most meaningful questions.

Questions like, "WHAT IS A CERVIX AGEEN I CRNT BELIEVE I FORGOT LOOL"

Looling indeed, m'lady! You forgot ageen? I daresay, you'd lose your head if it weren't attached.

After thoroughly perusing this treasury of queries and responses, I feel I have come away enlightened and with a greater sense of self-awareness and inner peace. Allow me to share with you some of the finer points of this site...

One inquisitive young woman wonders:

"How to stop queefing?"

and a young gentleman comes to her aid with a prompt reply:

"Making a girl queef, to a guy, is just a sign that you're really hiding it up good. If you've never made a girl queef, you're not doing it right. Also, the more aroused a girl gets, the more predictable she is to queef, so it's only a bad point if you don't know what it is."

If you've never made a girl queef, you're not doing it right. Are you taking notes, men?

Another young woman wonders:

"What chemicals could be put within panties to tighten up loose flaps?"

and receives her answer: "Aluminum."

Aluminum! Who knew! There is no reason to ever visit a doctor again! What use is medicine and science when we've got all the answers we need right here at this virtual oracle of sound advice? Get lost, physicians, we've got it covered!

Another woman is desperate for help:

"God, i need some good comebacks for those boobless attacks.? people r constantly teasing me and my friend about being flatcheasted (she's more flat that me so she get's tham more often. this is 4 her. well...sorta lol, me 2) I don;t kknow weather to laugh or be angry or... idk. COMEBACKS?"

Well, young lady, you have come to the right place. Let's see what cutting witticisms your fellow scholars have devised for your retorts.

"like, at lease my boobs arent so big that I can;t see my toes!" 

Zing!

"do you need a life jacket when you have one attached?" 

Oooh, count it!

"who needs a car with air bags?" 

Absolutely nobody, that's who.

"when you run do you smack yourself in the face?" 

Lool!

"at least i can find bathing suits in my size" 

Up top, girlfriend!

"less fun on top equals more fun on the bottom" 

It's true, do the math!

"at least they dont flat in the wind when i run" 

No flatting in the wind for you!

"If its a guy, just say, they are probably bigger than your dick!" 

Um...*confused face*...yes.

"At least i wont have back pains from those two tvs on your chest" 

TVs! How creative! Televisions are indeed large and bulky, like breasts, it's true.

So clever! I can't just stand back as a participant. I must step in and humbly propose my submissions for boobless comebacks:

"I'm rubber you're glue, your TV breasts flat in the wind like big floppy dicks."

Oh, heavens. This is harder than it looks. How about:

"Your large breasts are garbage breasts!"

Well, lesson learned. Leave the advice-giving to the experts.

Lastly, it appears even the most refined intellectuals seek sexual advice from time to time. It's quite possible they're more like us than we realize:

"Is it bleak to put a toy up your Virgina?"

"Depends, probably not if the toy is a train set or something big with a lot of moving metal parts."

Are you in need of some good advice? Start here: Go, learn, grow. 

Just like Princess Di, only less ana and more arrhea

Nana's Nigerian nurse is telling my dog Juanita that she's going to sew her a traditional Nigerian outfit and that, when Juanita travels back to Nigeria with her to visit her family, they will have a parade for her. She's teaching Juanita a traditional dance that involves clapping to a fast rhythm.

"Dance along wid me, my little Nigerian princess! *clapclapclap* YA-YA-YA!"

Juanita is a rapt audience, but Nigerian Nurse doesn't realize that Juanita's eyes are only tracking her hand movements because she has a smear of sweet potato on her wrist.

She can't wait for Juanita to meet her newborn niece, who has a name that translates to mean "Honor."

Me: Honor, that's a nice name. Does your name mean anything in Nigerian?

Nigerian Nurse: My name, it means "Bone on a weekaind."

Me: Bone? Oh, born on a weekend? Hm. So you were born on a weekend then?

Nigerian Nurse: No, I was bone on a Too-esday.

Me: Right. Makes sense.

Nigerian Nurse: Juanita is a powahful name. Dees dog has de haht of a lion.

Me: Yeah, well. She's food aggressive, so maybe.

Nigerian Nurse: Yes I know! She try to bite me befoah!

Me: What? Why? I'm sorry! Why would she do that??

Nigerian Nurse: I try to pick huh up, and she show me huh teets, she is a warriah!

Me: She showed you her tits?

Nigerian Nurse: Yes. Huh sharp teets.

Me: Her...sharp...tits?? Her nipples are kind of...crusty, I guess.

Nigerian Nurse: No. Huh sharp teets! Teets...ths. *growly face*

Me: Oh! Her sharp teeth? That's odd. I wonder why she bared her teeth. How did you pick her up?

Nigerian Nurse: Like dees. *Puts both hands around Juanita's neck and tries to lift her*

Me: OH MY GOD!! STOP! WHA?? YOU CAN'T...HOLY SHIT!! She's not a fucking SNAKE!!

Nigerian Nurse: She deedn't like it, she tell me wid heh teets.

Me: Yeah, I bet she told you with her teeth. You don't have much experience with dogs, do you.

Nigerian Nurse: No, I don't know many dogs befo-ah Juanita. Juanita is my fehst dog friend.

Me: That's nice. She's a good dog.

...

Me: Um, whatcha doin?

Nigerian Nurse: Petteen heh on heh face.

Me: With a spoon?

Nigerian Nurse: Yes, I show heh dat I love heh wid deh spoon, because I am a-freed to touch heh. She is a wild dog, a fierce warriah. *pong, pong, pong, spoon on dog head*

Me: Hmm. She seems to love you, despite you rapping her on the head with a spoon like that. How strange.

Nigerian Nurse: It's because she know I love heh too. I give heh treats to show heh. Lot of treats like, oh, you know, like, de bah-nah-nahs, and de lettuce, and what else I geeve heh? Cereal, and crab meat, and chicken soup...

Me: What? Okay, no. You know what? My mistake. I should have mentioned this before, but she really shouldn't eat human food...

Nigerian Nurse: And she love hummus, and deh Skinneh Cow ice cree-am sandwich...

Me: ....you know, because she's a dog, and dogs eat dog food only, and sometimes she gets an upset stomach....

Nigerian Nurse: And sometime cookie, but not too much of de cookie because she has to keep heh fig-yuh, so I give heh deh healty Luna Bar, and deh yogurt for healty lady to make deh lady poop on time, it's called...I can't remembah, you know what I'm tinking of?

Me: *sigh* Activia?

Nigerian Nurse: Yes. She love dat. Acti-veeeahhhhh!!! *claps and sings for Juanita* Sing along wid me, my Nigerian princess! Acti-vvveeeaaahhh!!

Juanita: *circus dog jumps, waves arms in the air* ActiviAAAAHHHH!!!

Me (telepathically): Um...what are you doing?

Juanita (telepathically back): Jumpin' around with my new best friend, is what. Mind your own business. I'm a fucking Nigerian princess.

Me: We're going home. You are SUCH a food whore.

Juanita: Dude, she just GIVES it to me on a spoon. What the fuck am I supposed to do? Say no?

Me: Well, yeah, when she starts breaking out the ice cream sandwiches, maybe, I don't know, just maybe you could show some restraint.

Juanita: Have you ever HAD Skinny Cow brand ice cream sandwiches? Seriously?? Only 150 calories? Half the fat, all the taste. Or...all the fat, double the taste, if you have two. Or if you have three, it's all the fat plus another half of the fat and triple the taste, which is the best way, I think.

Me: Well, this explains the dried diarrhea all over your ass-fur.

Juanita: That's not mine.

Me: Not your diarrhea? Some other dog made diarrhea on your ass fur? So, they backed up against you, butt to butt, and assploded all over you, is what you're saying?

Juanita: Maybe, or maybe I sat in diarrhea earlier. Some other dog left her diarrhea laying around and I sat in it probably, you know how it is. *sniffs butt* Nope, not mine.

Me: I'm not going to argue the source of your diarrhea ass-hair. This is insane.

Juanita: What. Come on. Like you never got someone else's diarrhea on your ass before? Oh, okay, Miss Hoity-Toity diarrhea snob. Oooh, look at Princess Becky, she's too good for other people's diarrhea...

Me: That's just hurtful. I'll have you know I am NOT too good for other people's diarrhea!!

Juanita: Heh. So you're not good enough for other people's diarrhea, is what you're saying?

Me: No. I mean...I...I'm just exactly good enough...equal in value to other people's diarrhea...Wait, this doesn't even make sense, what were we talking about before?

Juanita: We were talking about delicious Skinny Cow sandwiches and you lost your mind and started rambling about diarrhea. Now, please return me to the nurse lady, Princess Diarrhea, I have a date with a parfait.

Me: No, that's not gonna happen. I'm thinking it's time to go home.

Juanita: That's interesting. You know what I'm thinking? I'm thinking later tonight, maybe while you're brushing your teeth, your pillow's gonna sit in someone else's diarrhea.

Me: I'm thinking your threats don't scare me one bit.

Juanita: Again, interesting. Because I'm thinking maybe your pillow, in its infinite prescience in knowing you would respond to my threats that way, already sat in someone else's diarrhea this morning, right after you left the house.

Me: ...

Juanita: Yeah. Reckanize.

Why Jeff Bridges is not helpful during an anal leakage crisis

Do you know that, to this day, I've never seen The Big Lebowski in its entirety? I know, I know, you guys are all like WHAT?? SACRILEGE!!

I did intend to see it once. I even saw the beginning of it when it was out in theaters, on a date with a boy a few years back. But I had to leave 20 minutes into it when warm yellow oil started pouring out of my asshole.

Hahaha! *Shakes head* Classic Becky. *Sigh.*

So I'm sitting there next to my date in the theater, holding his penis his hand, when I lean forward to adjust myself in my seat and I feel a cold draft against my tush, and OMG do you love how I said tush just then? POW! Fancy manners explosion IN YOUR FACE!! *jerking off motion, throws pretend ejaculate in your eyes*

So I feel a draft, and reach back to check it out, performing that whole "smoothing out your butt" routine that girls do when they're actually checking for their period, and I feel wetness, but SO much wetness that I know it couldn't possibly have come from me, because I hardly ever pee my pants while I'm conscious.

"Hey, you know what?" I whisper to my date. "I sat in something, I think."

"Oh, shit, really? Lemme feel your seat." He reaches down and brushes his palm over my seat cushion. "Yeah, it's wet. *sniff, sniff* I think it's popcorn butter."

"I'll be back in a sec," I whisper, and run to the bathroom.

I pull down my pants and sit down on the toilet. Yep, whatever it was had soaked through my pants and onto my panties. And yep, it's bright yellow. Popcorn butter. Great.

I reach back with some toilet paper to see if there's any still on me, and the toilet paper comes back bright yellow. I'm soaked. When I stand up to collect paper towels to wring out my pants, I notice that the toilet water is also bright yellow. "That's strange," I wonder. "It was clear when I sat down." Something is not right.

I bend down to check out the yellow toilet water, and notice that the light is not reflecting off the surface of the water normally. The surface of the toilet water seems dull and matte, rather than glassy.

I toss my wadded up toilet paper into the bowl, expecting ripples. What happens instead is that the tissue lands on the surface of the toilet water, and within seconds, what I thought was yellow toilet water begins to crack and fissure like an iceberg, revealing clear water underneath.

I sit there, staring at the yellow shards of waxy yellow substance bobbing in the toilet water, and decide that whoever had used the toilet before me had better get herself checked out quick, poor thing!

I look down at my underwear. Bright yellow.

I look at the toilet paper. Bright yellow.

The waxy shards of cooled, solidified oil floating in the toilet bowl. Heh. Gross. Not mine.

The smell of stale popcorn butter. Heh. Some people are gross. Not me though. Heh.

Can you believe the nerve of some people, pouring popcorn butter on movie theater seats, for other people to go sit on? Haha, real funny, guys. Nice job! Time slows down. Flashing montage of images...the toilet paper...my underwear...the toilet bowl...Jeff Bridges slow-motion laughing in my face... Nice job, pouring it in my underpants and all over my lady parts. Ha! Oh my God it's starting to make sense now. Nice work, strangers who aren't me, pouring popcorn butter all down my thighs! Oh mother of God, no. Oh, look, you're still at it, pranksters, aren't you? Because it's still dripping down my legs! I'm dying. Liquified organs leaking out my fufu. You people and your hijinks! Denial denial denial...

*pants up, zipped*
*sweatshirt around waist*
*flush broken waxy shards down the toilet*
*dry heave...dry heave...*
*wet paper towel on forehead*
*pay phone call to roommate*
*shaky shaky hands, please come get me*

"Psst," I tap my date on the shoulder. "I'm gonna go. You stay here though."

"What? Why? Where you going?"

"I'm gonna go to the doctor. I broke something, my lady parts exploded. I think my uterus ruptured, or my eggs cracked. I don't know. I'm in trouble though. Please don't follow me."

"The Dude abides," says movie screen Jeff Bridges, all relaxed on account of his not having any hot waxy oil pouring out any of his orifices.

*middle finger* says my hand to Jeff Bridges, because I fear hippie types in times of crisis.

Twenty minutes later, I've got my legs up in stirrups and a gynecologist's head between my thighs.

Gyno: I can't find anything. I can't imagine what that was! Hot waxy oil, you say?

Me: I think I had a miscarriage. *starts to cry*

Gyno: But...was there blood? Was there any pain?

Me: No, it must have been pretty early along. *sniffle* It must have been, like, at the yolk stage still.

Gyno: Um...yes, the yolk stage. Remind me to give you some educational pamphlets before you leave.

Me: Maybe it was my placenta. My water broke. My hot sack of baby wax.

Gyno: Seriously. Did you not take health in high school?

Me: My embryonic butter baby.

Gyno: Have you considered that it may have come from your anus? Not your vagina?

Me: Um, no, I didn't consider that, because nothing exits that hole without permits. That hole is my bitch. I've got that hole wrapped around my finger, so to speak. It's the other hole that gives me all the grief, doing whatever it wants all the damn time.

Gyno: What did you eat yesterday?

Me: *sigh* I dunno. Oatmeal, sandwich, fruit salad, veggie juice, fish, wine, the usual.

Gyno: The fish! It could have been keriorrhea, or anal leakage caused by certain types of butterfish. Was the fish oily?

Me: I guess, a little. Not, like, 10 gallons of ass oil kind of oily.

Gyno: Well, how much of it did you eat?

Me: *thinky face* All...of it? *smile*

Gyno: All of it? What do you mean? The whole fish? You ate an entire fish?

Me: It's good for you. It was escolar. Protein. Somethin somethin omega mu oil.

Gyno: Remember when we talked about portion size?

Me: Palm of your hand.

Gyno: Palm of your hand.

Me: It did fit in the palm of my hand. We didn't discuss height of the portion though. It was a tall portion. Like Jenga, but with fish.

Gyno: Okay, go ahead and play fish Jenga, but you now know that, the next day, you will leak hot waxy oil out of your anus. So...

Me: So...wear a diaper?

Gyno: Yeah, or a different choice that's not that.

Me: *thinky face* Wear...an adult diaper?

Gyno: Okay. We're done here.

Fin.

It wasn't a helicopter.

Me: Mom, cmere. I wanna tell you something.

Mom: Okay. *walks over and leans in* What is it?

Me: I wanna tell yooou?? thaaaaaat???....

Mom: ...

Me: ...

Mom: Tell me what?

Me: *FART*

Mom: ....

Me: *excited face*

Mom: Tell me what?

Me: Nevermind.

Mom: No, what? What do you wanna tell me?

Me: Nothing. I farted but you didn't hear it.

Mom: You called me over to tell me I didn't hear your fart?

Me: No, I called you over to fart for you, but you didn't hear it.

Mom: Oh.

Me: The whole thing's ruined now.

Mom: Sorry.

Me: Will you PLEASE get your ears checked? This isn't the first time something like this has happened recently.

Mom: Becky. I'm fine. I have perfect hearing.

Me: Oh really?

Mom: Yes.

Me: ...

Mom: ...

Me: *excited face*

Mom: OH! God, Becky, that's gross!!

Me: I didn't fart that time. That was a trick.

Mom: Crap.

Me: You know, hearing loss can be a sign of other things too. You need to get it checked out.

Mom: Maybe try again. Here, I'll put my head down lower. *squats down behind me*

Me: No, mom. Get up. Seriously. Don't embarrass yourself.

Mom: Alright, fine.

Me: Just admit it. It doesn't mean you're old.

Mom: Maybe it's you. Was it a whiny fart or a flappy fart?

Me: What? You're blaming your failure to hear on the quality of my fart? What are you, a fucking dolphin? The frequency of my fart's wavelength isn't HIGH enough for you, princess? Nothing I do is ever good enough, is it?

Mom: I...I just meant...

Me: No, you know what? It doesn't even matter. Maybe it was whiny or maybe it was flappy, it doesn't matter, the point is...

Mom: Honey... you know how proud of you I am...

Me: NO, don't TOUCH me. Not yet, I just...I need some time. The point is you can't hear shit. Pfft. Whiny or flappy? I'm not even going to dignify that with a response.

Mom: Becky.

Me: Both. It was both. It was whiny, then flappy at the end. It was perfect. Ok, I'm done.

Mom: ...

Me: ...

Mom: A-HA!

Me: What?

Mom: I heard that one!

Me: That's a helicopter.

Mom: I'll go in on Monday.

Me: Thank you.