Painting the Town Polka Dot

I'm not really here today. Instead, I'm on a plane, headed to Springfield, to view the famous Springfield Tire Fire and the now defunct Springfiled Monorail (too late, mom, the crowd has spoken...). Hey, it worked for Ogdenville.

Oh, what? Wrong Springfield? Ah, silly me. I wondered why no one was yellow with big bulgy eyes. Anyway, I'm having a coffee with fabulous blogger friend Sass. And then we're going to get mo.stoneskin (kinky) and we're all headed off to meet up with Scope and see Cowguy's band play. Ah, fuck it. You can read about my adventures yourself.

You should also cue up R.E.M.'s Losing my Religion for when you read it.

Aren't I clever?

Anyway, I shan't leave you without a fun little story while I'm off to Springfield, painting the town with Sass et. al. So, I'll tell you a little tale of what happened to me yesterday.

I got an email from my wife, the Comely and Buxom and Ailurophobic Boudicca. She was telling me about her lunch, and how she decided a pickle would go perfectly with her sandwich and chips. So, she reached into the pickle jar and pulled out...a pickle. But it wasn't just any pickle. It was a pickle that reminded her...ahem...of me.

Now, there's a euphemism for masturbation one uses from time to time: "jerkin' your gherkin". I had no idea how dangerously close to real life this could be. See for yourself.

Nice, huh?

Though, I have to worry if my wife thinks something so small which is green, spotted and knobby reminds her of me. What's that I feel? Oh, it's the beginnings of a complex. Fantastic.

And just for your personal edification: she ate it. Popped that thing in her mouth and swallowed it right down.

Now I know she was lying when she said it reminded her of me: she didn't even dip it in mayonnaise first!