I Am a Guppy. Deal With It.

This week, I am Esther Williams! I am Amanda Beard! I am Miss Piggy in that synchronized swimming fantasy she has in The Great Muppet Caper!

In short, I have been swimming. A lot.

Summer is by far my favorite season of the year. It requires so little clothing. I don't feel pressure to wear makeup, just a little sunscreen and some lip balm. You can sit outside and drink beers all day long if you have the mind to. AND you can go swimming. Which makes me giddy if I sit here and think about it for too long.

Because, you see, I love swimming. If I see a pool from a distance or even smell chlorine, I get excited. I'm like a puppy who wants to go for walk. "Pool? Now? Us? Pool? Pool?! Pool!" And before you know it, I'm sitting in the doorway with my suit on and a towel around my waist telling you to, "Hurry up and get your ass ready. The pool waits for no man!"

When I was a kid, swimming was better than Christmas. On vacations, I would BEG my parents to stay in a hotel with a pool. I didn't want dinner. I didn't want to go shopping. I didn't want to sit in the room and watch cable TV. I wanted to go swimming. "One hour after eating to prevent cramps" be DAMNED! When there wasn't a pool around, I would just overfill the bathtub and attempt to float in it.

But let me first clarify that I am, in fact, a terrible swimmer. Oh, I can tread water for hours and hours and hours and hours. And I can do a fairly graceful dive. My underwater handstands are sublime. But when it comes to actually swimming laps, my skills are abysmal. I blame it all on the fact that I never passed guppy level at swimming lessons. Allow me to tell you why.

I had a crush. On two boys. Brothers. And they were both in my swimming class. Along with my brother who knew I had a crush on said boys and was constantly making fun of me for it. And so, as I tried to maintain my dignity while wearing a swimming suit in front of boys, my swimming skills suffered. Everyone else went on to minnow levels. And eventually, I stopped taking lessons altogether. The angst was just too much. Which is why, at almost 29, I am still a guppy.

But let me just say that being a guppy is nothing to be ashamed of. I imagine there are a lot of aged tadpoles out there still wearing their water wings or avoiding the water altogether. I can totally do a breathstroke. Just not a very effective one. And sometimes, when trying to breathe and stroke is just too much trouble, I simply stop mid-pool and have a nice, refreshing break. I don't go to lap swimming to break any kind of speed record or whittle myself down to one of those streamlined swimmer's builds. I just go to wallow around in the water. Less of a duck to water, and more of a pig in shit. A fabulous one with purple gloves, a green boyfriend, and a no-nonsense karate chop. As Miss Piggy would say, "Beauty is in the eye of the beholder and it may be necessary from time to time to give a stupid or misinformed beholder a black eye." I believe this also applies to proper swimming technique.

The Cow Says Moo: A Primer

If you didn't grow up on the farm and get your cow learnin' the old-fashioned way, what you learn about cows usually comes from books and the cows you see at the zoo. Someone reads you a book and says, "Now what does the cow say?" to which you are supposed to reply, "Moo." There are illustrations of bulls with pointed horns and cows wearing gold bells. And most of these cows are black and white and grazing in a clover-filled pasture. You discover that milk comes from cows, and sometimes they live in barns with their friends the sheep and pigs. Not entirely inaccurate, but quite incomplete.

When you're a bit older, you might hear a rumor that if you push on a cow's belly while it is sleeping, it will fall over and that this hilarious practice is called "cow tipping."

Later in life, you might get the "Meat is Murder!" education where you come to understand the dark and horrible truth behind industrial farming and the slaughtering process. You may choose to ignore these tales and continue to gnaw on your steak, or stop eating meat altogether, or go a step further and set out on a crusade to save all cattle from further pain and suffering. Maybe you'll even set fire to a MacDonald's. To people who might be inclined to take that route toward cow appreciation, you are welcome to do whatever you please, as long as you don't hurt anyone. I'm not writing this in judgment of your actions.

I am simply writing this to set the record straight about cows because, far too often, I hear someone say, "Look at that cow!" when it's really a bull or hear the term "heifer" being thrown around willy-nilly. And this is a travesty. We rely a great deal upon cows. I believe it is only polite to get to know them better.

So here are some important facts about cows for people who are perhaps a bit less-informed. If you already know these things, feel free to scroll down to the bottom and collect your certificate in the field of cowology.

1. Bulls are not cows.

When a calf is born, if it is a female, it is called a "heifer." If it is a male, it is called a "bull." At around two or three years of age, you can start referring to a heifer as a cow. When a bull is still quite young, someone will determine whether or not it is of good enough breeding to be allowed to procreate. If not, it will be castrated. After that time, it is known as a steer (or a bullock if you're a Brit). Most males end up as steers. "Cattle" is a general term that describes the animals collectively.

2. Calves are born feet first.

Cows can give birth laying down or standing up. It's very gushy and not at all like you might have seen in the movie CITY SLICKERS. For details on the actual process and how things can go wrong, read James Herriott's All Creatures Great and Small and be glad you don't have to put your hand in a cow's birth canal for a living.

2. Cattle are lazy.

No one ever makes a charmingly sweet movie about a little boy and his best cow friend. Why? Because cows aren't action animals. You want action? You get a horse. You want chutzpah? You get a piglet. You want milling around pointlessly pecking at things? You get a chicken. But you certainly don't get a cow. For the most part, cows are boring. And they like it that way.

3. Cows are good mothers.

A cow will fight anything that messes with her baby. It doesn't matter if it's a human or a predator. Cows sometimes babysit for each other because calves like to get into mischief.

4. Cattle come in all types and colors.

Angus cattle are black, Herefords are red and white, Charolais are pure white. But there are many, many other kinds. The three listed above are raised to be butchered for meat. Guernseys and Holsteins, on the other hand, are a few examples of types of cattle that are raised for dairy production. By nature, both of these breeds produce more milk than beef cattle breeds. You can milk beef cattle, but it will only confuse and possibly anger them.

5. Cow tipping is a myth.

Cows sleep laying down unless there is no room to do so. However, you can tip a cow for good service by giving it a handful of alfalfa. They like that. If someone tells you that he has been cow tipping, he is a big, fat liar.

6. Cows can kill you.

Despite their generally peaceful nature, there are some cows you will happily trample you to death. If a cow is running toward you with the look of crazy in her eyes, run. Alternately, there are very gentle bulls who are quite unlikely to even look at you twice much less cause you harm.

7. Cows are curious.

If you stand close to a pen containing a large group of cows, they will probably sniff and possibly lick you to see if you are edible. Cows have surprisingly pleasant breath and very raspy toungues.

8. Some bulls don't have horns. Some cows do.

Again, it's all about the breed. Some farmers have cows dehorned. Some don't. A sprouting horn is called a "horn bud." They can be cut or burned off. Burning is more humane but stinkier.

So, that concludes my lesson for today. I hope that with this information, you will know what to do if you happen upon a cow on a dark road in the middle of the night. Maybe you'll pull over and milk it. Maybe you'll see the look of crazy in its eyes and drive away as fast as you can. As long as you don't try to tip it over and run away giggling, I think you'll be fine.

(Okay, I lied about the cowology certificates. Apologies.)

The Story of Farting Ugly: A Realistic Fairy Tale

A message from the Mayor of Bethville: Oh, hello. I'm just popping in to post something because I haven't posted since Wednesday and feel very lazy about it. Truthfully, I'm in the middle of a separate project and it's A) annoying and B) keeping me quite busy. So, here is something to tide you over, a fairy tale from the old newsletter archives. Trust that I have lots of fun things in the works right now, but nothing is quite ready. Enjoy this for now and I'll have something new for you by Monday!

Once upon a time there was a average looking princess named Linda. One of the princes in a neighboring kingdom who was only average looking himself (and therefore had lowered expectations due to poor self confidence) thought it might be a good idea to send word to Linda that he found her interesting. What Prince Billy didn’t know is that Linda was cursed for life by a doting aunt who brought nothing but cabbage to family gatherings. She brought coleslaw to family picnics, cabbage rolls at Thanksgiving, scalloped cabbage at Christmas, and the occasional cabbage birthday cake when it was her turn to bring dessert. So, not only was Princess Linda only average looking, she was also cursed with excess gas.

So, needless to say, Linda was not overjoyed to receive Prince Billy’s note. How would she explain her problem to him and not lose his interest? Would Billy still be able to see past her enlarged pores, unibrow, and wide birthing hips? So, Princess Linda decided to ignore the note altogether until she could come up with a solution.

The only problem with that is, like most average looking girls who lack in self-confidence, Princess Linda had a very overbearing mother. Queen Nancy found the note from Prince Billy while “cleaning Linda’s room” and decided that it was in Linda’s best interest to go out on a date with Prince Billy. “If anything, Linda” she said, “you need to get out of the castle once in a while.” So, Queen Nancy sent a messenger to Billy’s mother, Queen Becky, posthaste and arranged for her daughter to be picked up that night at eight.

Luckily, Prince Billy was a nice guy, and he and Princess Linda had a nice time. They discovered they had a lot in common: domineering mothers, exciting hobbies (him, model airplanes; her, taxidermy), and a love for Russian literature (him, Tolstoy; her, Dostoyevsky). They went on several more dates.

As it turns out, Prince Billy also had an insane doting aunt, one who used lentils in everything. So, everything turned out all right. Prince Billy and Princess Linda eventually eloped and moved to a kingdom far, far away from their mothers. The crazy doting aunts became good friends and now own a very successful vegetarian eatery. Queens Becky and Nancy founded the Wealthy Dowager’s Society for Mothers of Ungrateful Children, a non-profit organization. They are the only members. Nowadays, Prince Billy spends his free time perusing Ebay for first edition copies of Notes from the Underground for his darling (and still average-looking) wife, and Princess Linda is writing a cookbook called 101 Uses for Cauliflower. They don’t have kids yet and would appreciate people not asking about it at every family gathering.

THE END

How to Date: Worms Who Cheat

Today is July 23.

A year ago today, I discovered I was being cheated on. And while I now feel nothing but indifference toward the guy who did the cheating, I am still not over the the actual act of cheating or the long, drawn-out mindfuck that followed.

The reaction you have to unfaithfulness goes beyond the simple realization that someone you love slept with someone else. The penis familiaris goes into the foreign vagina (Bonjour, pénis). And that act is just biology, as simple as a roundworm taking up residence in a dog's intestine. If we all had the brain capacity of a nematode (or a penis for that matter), everyone would go skipping through life emotionless, eating, screwing, and pooping until they die. No one would notice if Mr. Nematode stepped out for the evening and came back with lipstick all over his cloaca. Because he was, after all, just following his instincts.

Unfortunately, we have feelings. And we have attached some of them to sex. Therefore, last July 23, I felt not only A) the physical and emotional betrayal, but also B) the instant reaction of finding fault in myself, followed by C) being forced to go over the scenario again and again in my mind. And the scenario is the sickening part. Because you think about it CONSTANTLY. Did he go over there planning to screw her? Or did she seduce him? Was he wearing that one shirt I liked? Did he hang it up like he sometimes did or just throw it on the floor? Did he lay there afterwards or leap right up, get dressed, and go home? Did she chuckle wickedly as he drove away? And most importantly, did they bother with protection?

After the truth came out and I was taken in by his one-man show, Remorse in Four Acts, I couldn't shake the feeling that part of him enjoyed what I was going through. He would say, "Tell me what you're thinking," and I would tell him, for the sake of our newly formed "vow of honesty." He would want to talk about it again and again. Over a beer after work, via email, on the phone before I was allowed to go to sleep at night.

And then there were the text messages. Constantly. There would be one when I got up every morning. "How was I feeling? Did I still love him? Could we hang out over the weekend?" If I didn't respond right away, he would text again. "Did my lack of response mean that I didn't love him anymore because of what he did? Could he come over so we could talk about it?" (Even now, if I get a text message from anyone, I get a feeling of dread and have to check it immediately to reassure myself that it's just someone asking me to brunch.) Any time we spent together led to a discussion of some sort. He seemed to love the post-cheating conversations. (Personally, I think it got him off.)

And let's not even go into the absolute loathing I felt for the woman he cheated with. A woman I had never met, and yet felt that I deserved to suffer in some way. Simply because her former boyfriend was my current boyfriend. The funny thing was, all she had to do was wait it out. Our relationship was headed for the pooper anyway. I knew mid-June that it was just a matter of time and finding the strength to untangle myself from the emotionally abusive and manipulative turdhelmet. After that, she could have had him back, guilt free.

So when I say that I'm not over the actual act of my ex-boyfriend putting his dick where it didn't belong but totally over the dude himself, I mean that I'm still questioning my own reaction to it and coming to terms with the fact that I was likely as anyone to be cheated on. And I know that I'm a different person now. I trust people less. But I'm happier. Because I know that what he did, I would never do to anyone. I am, and always was, a better person.

So, here it is. One last bit of, I think, terribly helpful advice...

How to Rid Yourself of a Nematode:

1. Realize that the thing chapping your ass is probably a nematode.

2. Take the necessary actions to get rid of it.

3. Avoid further nematodes.

A nematode is not worth getting anemic over.

Cautionary Tale! Safe Sex in Three Acts: Part 3

Guy on the Street: Up there! No! Not there! Not in the sky! But on that ladder leaning against that building with suspiciously fogged up window glass? Is it...? Is it...?

The...

Abstinence Crusaaaaader!?

One who crusades through parking garages, bean bag chairs, basement couches and the like, making sure that teenagers' wayward hormones don't make them go too far?

...

No, no. I am mistaken. It is a window washer. And that, on his waist, is not Abstinence Crusader's trusted chastity belt, but a safety harness. And in his hand? Not a handy underwear and Bible cannon, but a squeegie.

But, by now, my shouts of elation have gathered a crowd of onlookers who want to see Abstinence Crusader fight those who might remove their clothing and do God knows what. I'm so embarrassed...

A different guy: Embarrassed you say?

Guy on the Street: Yes! Yes! Completely embarrassed!

The other guy: Then I've come just in time! I am Captain Embarrassment! If you're in an embarrassing situation, I will swoop in and save you from it by doing something tons more embarrassing. Now, watch closely as I juggle these vats of hot fryer oil. And...here...we...go!

And yet another guy: STOP! You're not Captain Embarrassment! You're The Great Impostor, master mimic and villain. Now, hand over my wallet!

The Alleged Captain Embarrassment: I don't know what you're talking about. I'm Captain Embarrassment. Wait a minute... Are you Random Accusations Man?

Random Accusations Man: Whatever could you mean? Can't you see that I'm just an onlooker? Okay, I'm Random Accusations Man. You've caught me... Wow, this is...embarrassing.

Captain Embarrassment: I'll save you! I'm going to jam my mouth full of marshmallows!

Random Accusations Man: My hero!

Captain Embarrassment: Mumph huher.

A bypasser: Be careful! Don't choke!

Captain Embarrassment: *chokes*

The selfsame bypasser: I'll save you! *administers life-saving technique* Don't you know how dangerous it is to stuff your mouth with marshallows?

Captain Embarrassment: You saved my life. That means you can only be...Dr. Heimlich?

Alleged Dr. Heimlich: Actually, no. I'm The Abstinence Crusader. But safety is all part of my abstinence training. Anyway, is anyone here planning on having sexual relations this evening? Because you'd better not.

It's All About Meme

My friend blogger over at Bubblegum Culture recently did the super-flattering meme thing and gave "Welcome to Bethville!" a total shout-out, and I, a neglectful boob, have yet to return the favor. Because I am a neglectful boob and entirely too self-absorbed for words.

So here we go with the meme thing. These are the rules:

The rules are to link the person who sent it to you, mention these rules in your blog, then (the fun part) tell us about 6 random, unspectacular quirks that you possess. Then tag 6 others to do the same.

In short, it's like a blogging pyramid scheme because you bring a whole bunch of people in, and no one ever makes any money at it.

Here are my quirks of unspectatularness:

1. Despite any references I make that could, in theory, make me sound intelligent, my brain only has the capacity to alternate between the subjects of food and sex. Which is why I enjoy eating and discussing sausage so very much. Because it doesn't require much thought from me.

2. I try words from Harry Potter spells when I play Scrabulous, even though I know they won't be accepted. "Scourgify!" "Patronum!" "Crucio!" "Leviosa!"

3. I talk to myself. More than I would ever admit here. If someone catches me, I pretend I was talking to my cat.

4. If I call you my friend, we are probably in some form of competition you don't know about right this second. If you say something hilarious, I try to say something funnier. If you say you baked the best cookies ever, I will set out to prove that mine are more delicious. If you read a book in one night, I will go get it from the library in order to read it faster. In my defense, I don't even realize I'm doing it until the competition is well underway. Also, if I call you my friend, you've probably had the good grace, thus far, to not mention this annoying quirk of mine.

5. I am terrible at keeping secrets. Especially if I've been drinking. So don't tell me any secrets. Unless I really, really want to know. If you tell me that you're dating someone but not to tell anybody, I've already told. (Trust that it was no one horrible.) If I buy you a Christmas present, you will know what it is within ten minutes of its purchase.

6. If you invite me to your party, I will start planning on when I should get ready when I wake up that morning. During the day, I'll look at the clock and think, "Four more hours until I have to shower."

Here are my tags:

Please, have a bowl of eternal aesthetics by one of my favorite people, Miss Greta Wendelin.

And then, there's Gotta Drop a Blog in the Corner, which is apparently a new blogging endeavor by my friend t.c.

Followed up by All the Blues That's Fit to Print by the hilarious Lalaland13.

And then, there's this gem that I uncovered by snooping around on people's Facebook profiles. Grumpy Words, written in part by my friend Morgan.

And who could forget this blog by my friend Jenn: Knowledge is power, work towards it.

Finally, we have Sum of Two Drunks by my glorious friend Nicole.

Also, I believe my friend Laia over at Geometric Sleep tagged me as well.

But, Laia, I simply cannot tell you 7 songs I'm listening to right now. Because all the typing I've just done has given me terminal carpal tunnel syndrome. And I want to spend my last moments on Earth either eating or screwing.

Therefore, I conclude here.

Have Thee an Etiquette Query...?

Thou should'st send them to me, Fat Shakespeare, The Portly Bard!

Write your query on a piece of parchment and seal it with wax. Then, hand it to my faithful messenger Arturo, once you summon him via carrier pigeon. I shall then read your query, and in several months, I will deliver unto you my response.

Or you can email these selfsame questions to themayorofbethville@gmail.com along with any additional comments, suggestions, angry letters to the editor, or flirtatious post-it notes you may desire to send.

Fare thee well!

Fat Shakespeare, The Portly Bard

Don't Break Your Hip Granny

My first reaction upon seeing the "hip granny" on the subway, with the spiky gray hair and the trendy jogging outfit was, "When I get older, I want to be just like hip granny there. Still active and healthy. And, you know, hip."

But then I remembered that I'm me. And the likelihood of suddenly becoming hip and/or taking up jogging are about as likely as me becoming a vegetarian. Because, while it's a good idea in theory, I'll always really want that cheeseburger. But I'll never really want to go jogging.

I realized then that while we can't control the fact that we age, we can control how we go about it.

Therefore, I want to be a classic blue-haired granny. Who drives an antique powder blue Cadillac. And lets her cat eat at a high chair pushed up to the table. And drives way faster than she should. And yells at the damn kids next door for looking at her lawn ornaments funny. Because there will be lawn ornaments. Thousands of them. Enough garden gnomes to repopulate the Mines of Moria. Holding their tiny ornamental pickaxes and looking wistfully up at the rosebushes I'll pay somebody else to care for.

I'll have an entire pitcher of vodka lemonade at 10 AM if I feel like it. And wear rhinestone studded cat's eye glasses. Then, I'll take them off when people come over and pretend I don't know who they are. I'll rig booby traps for the Jehovah's Witnesses who step on my porch. Then, I'll offer to let them run through my lawn sprinklers in order to wash off the corn syrup and chicken feathers. As a final gesture, I'll give them a brownie for amusing me so.

When there's some kind of a pot luck dinner I don't want to attend, I'll make one of those inedible Jell-o salads with mandarin oranges, marshmallows, and bits of chicken liver. Or a casserole with cream of mushroom soup and peas topped with candied cherries I picked from a leftover fruitcake. Then, I'll snicker to myself when people tell me how good it is.

My back yard will have a big, round pool. And during the summer, I'll float around on it all day long, reading a book and getting a suntan on my saggy, unfettered old boobs. During the winter, I'll just keep the pool hotter and wear mittens.

But don't think for a second I'll be lonely. There will be gentleman callers and friends coming over for a nice 4 PM supper every once in a while. Not too often though because I can't be in the kitchen all day long. I'll be old, you know? And I'll have store windows to drive into, when I can no longer distinguish the brake from the gas pedal, and bran muffins to butter.

When my knees finally go and I can't get around on my own anymore, I'll eat the slightly bloated can of tuna in the very back of my pantry and let the ptomaine poisoning kill me. The pizza delivery boy will find me out on my faithful old pool float, the scent of rancid tuna still hanging in the air, very sunburned and quite lifeless.

I'll be cremated and stored forevermore in a cookie jar on the kitchen counter of some great-nephew or grandchild. Guests will think they're sneaking a cookie, and there I'll be. Still very unhip, but always with a few surprises left in her.

And Now...Fat Shakespeare, the Portly Bard: On the Importance of RSVPs

Two households,
One serving mutton, the other chicken pie.
And I, caught in a quandary between the two.
Mine eyes doth gaze upon my calendar.
Upon the same eve these dinners fall,
Two fortnights hence.
By my beard!
Fie and fie again!
I beseech my patron, the Hefty Lord Chamberlain,
To change his invitation to July 26.
A whining maggot-pie, he called me.
The nerve of that canker-blossom!
And so, I am resolved to choose one or the other.
But what to decide?

Allow me to think whilst I eat this gingersnap.
And this one as well.
And hello! Is that custard?
Ne're have I spied such beauty in a pudding...
I'faith! Is that calf tongue yonder?
And boiled partridges? And stewed trout?
And anteater face with parsnip gravy?
And cat stomach sausage? With quail's blood sauce?
And oysters on wild dingo brains?
And stuffed elephant blisters?
And candied lizard on a bed of shaved oxen sinus?
And horse buttock pie?

Alack! I am stuffed. And I must go nap.
Anon, then. Anon.

How to Date: Those Guys Who Just Stop Calling and Why It Is Wrong to Kill Them

*ring ring*

Hello?

Oh, hello. Is this Betsy?

Yes. Yes it is.

Well, Betsy, this is Trevor. Remember me?

Trevor, of course I remember you. Why are you calling?

I thought it might be nice of me to call and tell you that I would like to end our relationship. I feel it's only fair that I let you know before I date someone else.

Trevor, we've been married for six years. You can't just call me and tell me you want to see other people. We have children.

Well, Betsy. I was reading a very interesting magazine. Cosmopolitan, I think it was called... And it said that when you end a relationship, it's always polite to give the person a call and let them know. That way you can get your stuff back.

Cosmopolitan, eh? Let me guess, the November issue? Tell me, Trevor, are you calling from the upstairs bathroom? Where I keep my old magazines?

Er...

Because, if you are, why don't you just come downstairs so we can talk about this in person?

Uh. No, actually, I'm calling from a phone booth. Yeah, a phone booth.

Fine, if this is how you want to play it...

[silence]

Betsy?

Betsy?

...

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!


Now that I've got your attention, let's talk about when it IS appropriate to call someone and tell her (or him) that your relationship is over.

Now, I'm not going to pretend I'm innocent. I've recently "just never called back" a couple of guys I went out with only once. I admit it wasn't the kindest way to go about it. But sometimes it's just the easier option when things are awkward.

1) It gets your message across.
2) You don't have to explain why.

But one date is one date. It isn't a relationship, and let's face it, if you agree to see a person on more than one occasion and semi-acknowledge that you like that person, either by saying so or agreeing to engage in some sort of physical contact, then you are in a form of relationship. I don't care if you had that "Okay, but let's not get too serious about this" talk. You have to tell the other person it's over when it is.

So, this happened to me only once. I'm not bragging.

His name was Eric. And we actually had several really great dates before he just stopped calling. On the last of these dates, he had what I like to call a "personal malfunction." He was obviously embarrassed. I never heard from him again. I haven't gotten over it. It's been two years. What did he think I was going to do if he told me he didn't want to see me again? Cry? Throw myself off a building? Threaten to cut off his balls? No. I would have been hurt, but I wouldn't have hunted him down and sold his kidneys on Ebay. So what was he so afraid of? Confrontation? What a baby!

So, here is a lesson for dudes out there who are considering taking the easy way out of your relationship. Know that you could do this to someone who could potentially blog about your boner issues two years later because she is still hurt by you not calling.

Stories on this subject? Share them in the comments. Let's heal together.

Cautionary Tale! Safe Sex in Three Acts: Part 2

Woman: Hi.

Man: Hi.

Woman: My name is Female Love Interest. What's yours?

Man: Male Love Interest.

Woman: So nice to meet you! So, just so we are on the same page here, these are my boobs. This is the right one. This is the left one. I'm going to play hard to get for a while, so touching will be out of bounds until we get to the end of some sort of beach montage.

Man: That's completely understandable. And if I might be so bold, if you look straight down, you'll see a slight bulge in my trousers. That is my penis. NO! Don't stare at it too long. You might excite it.

Woman: I agree we should keep this strictly professional. Just to be clear, though, you have two functioning testicles, yes?

Man: Absolutely.

Woman: Excellent. I look forward to being in a cinematic relationship with you.

Man: Shall we get started then?

Woman: Yes, please.

Man: Okay, I think it would be a really good idea for us to actually meet by you running to catch a bus while wearing outlandishly high heels. You'll trip, fall in a manhole, and I'll dive in to save you. That way we'll establish right away that I am a guy's guy who isn't afraid to get a little dirty.

Woman: Oh! Good one. And I'll pretend to be angry with you, shouting that I can take care of myself in order to establish that I'm an independent career woman who doesn't need a man.

Man: After that, I'll show up at your office and join the important meeting we were both late for. I think we should get stuck working on a project together that will result in us somehow getting rained on and completely soaked. You'll sit on my couch wrapped in a towel drinking tea while I tell you about how my last relationship ended poorly.

Woman: You'll try to kiss me, and I'll tell you it's late and that I need to go home. You'll loan me something dry to wear.

Man: The next day I'll show up to your water aerobics class in order to get close to you and act like it's no big thing. You'll be embarrassed by my presence until I charm the old ladies in class and one of them tells you that I'm "a keeper." You'll rethink the vow you made earlier to your slightly fatter best friend to not date a business associate.

Woman: And then I'll very nervously ask you out.

Man: So, let's get to the part where we have sex. I think we should be making out as we burst through your bedroom doorway and hurl ourselves down onto the bed. Now do we want to cut away and just show us post-sex or shall there be a nude butt shot? Because I'm totally fine with showing my butt for this.

Woman: Or I could shift around a little and show maybe the side of my breast or maybe a nipple if we want to go in that direction?

Man: We could do both. Nipple and butt. Tit for tat.

Woman: That could work.

Man: Just to be clear, we won't actually be having sex. We'll roll around for a while and then you'll start making faces like the ecstasy is just too much for you.

Woman: Or we can do a more comical approach. The proverbial wind could die in your proverbial sails. One of us could fall asleep. My hair could get caught in your zipper. What do you think?

Man: Or you could make faces like you're caught up in a moment of absolute pleasure and tell me how amazing it is.

Woman: Um...

Man: Anyway, we'll come back to that. Afterwards, do you want to pillow talk or cut to me making you breakfast? I'm fine with either. I think either way, I'm going to want to see you in my shirt from the night before and your hair up in a messy ponytail.

Woman: And we can sit at the table and start a morning after conversation with "Sooo....last night" or "Is this weird...?" Then, let's have a laugh over our shared awkwardness.

Man: Genius! You know, I think I could fall in love with you.

Woman: And I could fall in love with you too.

Man: Let's go now and sail away into the sunset on the tropical vacation that will inevitably end our movie.

Woman: Quick! Kiss me before the credits roll.

THE END

Cautionary Tale! Safe Sex in Three Acts: Part 1

The year is 1996. Kids are having sex at younger ages every day. This short-lived children's variety show was produced in an attempt to reach those children...

Hey, everybody! It's me! Cappy the Contraceptive Device! And I'm here to tell you about saaaaafe sex! Isn't it a beauuuuutiful day here in Slappy Land? The trees are standing up straight and tall, there's fresh dew in the grass, and I have a hard-on for telling you about playing it safe!

Everybody gets that special feeling sometimes. Maybe in the morning. Or at night. Or in the afternoon. During gym class, during science class, during social studies, during lunch, during recess, when your teacher starts writing mathematical equations on the chalk board and her bra strap falls down...and other times as well.

But always remember that, no matter where that special feeling leads, you have a social responsiblity to protect yourself and others!

In fact, I have a special song just for you, to help you remember about special feelings.

And a one, and a two, and a three, and a four...

I've been reeaaaally tryin', person I'm attracted to.
Trying to hold back this feeling for SO long.
And if you feeeeel like I feel, potential sex partner.
Uh, come on. HEY! Let's get it oooooon...
SAAAAAAFE, though.
Leeeet's get it on...

(Aside: Remember, kids. Copyright infringement is bad news! Stay safe from lawsuits! Always remember to credit original songwriters!)

*ding dong*

Well, who could that be? Oh, look! It's my good friend Bucky Bareback, the Bareback Riding Cowboy. And he's brought us a letter! What's that, Bucky? You can't stay and talk because syphilis is slowly eating your brain, and you have to go see your doctor about having that pus drained? Poor Bucky! I guess you should have thought about that before you had so much fun at the circus! See you later, Bucky!

Today's letter says, "Dear Cappy, (THAT'S ME!) My mom says that to be safe, I should wear a helmet, so I do. I like your hat. Signed, Cupcake McButterwings, age 5.

Well...huh. It looks like Cupcake, age 5, is a little confused about the importance of the kind of safety we're discussing. Well, kids, as you can see from this handy-dandy chart given to me by the executives over at Unraveling the Minds of Children and Teens, Inc., all of you are probably thinking about sex riiiiight now! So it's super-duper important for you to sit right there in front of the TV until the show is over so you can absorb the important message Cappy has for you every day!

I know! Let's gather around the free condom table, and I will tell you a stoooory...

[end of transcript]

The man who played Cappy the Contraceptive Device was found dead in his dressing room later that evening. The limited budget of the show did not allow for his condom costume to consist of more than a large white garbage bag. And unfortunately, for all the important lessons about safety that Cappy shared, he forgot the one about not putting plastic bags over your head. An important side note: Cappy died free from herpes.

To the Nefarious Ludwig Von Butterick, With Much Regret

Dear Mr. Von Butterick,

I write with much regret. Regret that I have disappointing news and regret that my regret will leave you with more regret than the news would bring you, if I carried with me only it and not additional regret.

So, brace yourself. May I suggest putting this letter down and running to the kitchen of the glorious Von Butterick Casino Hotel and Teriyaki Restaurant for some warm panda milk and biscuits to calm your nerves? I will enclose a favorite biscuit recipe with my letter. My mother used to make them for me when I arrived at home in elementary school with much regret and a D on my report card.

The terribly regretful news I bring to you involves permits. Permits that I regret to tell you that you did not secure before building your casino hotel and teriyaki restaurant. Now, before I write this next part, I'm going to huddle under my desk and eat cookies and contemplate the devastating effect that the next part of my news will bring. Please excuse me for a moment.

Okay, I have returned to my typewriter and will now continue with my bad news.

My news is this: Tomorrow at 12 PM, men with equipment of destruction will arrive at your fabulous casino hotel and teriyaki restaurant and bulldoze it to the ground. They will then break for lunch and eat their bologna sandwiches. After that, they will dig a large crevasse and bury the rubble beneath it while taking little consideration of the environmental impact of that action. Not even a teriyaki sauce packet will be saved.

I regret having to bring you this news. But at the same time, now that I am relieved of my burden, I feel much, much better.

I regret writing that last sentence, as I'm sure it only increased your regret over the news I have just given you.

Anyhoo, I have other letters to write today. So, I leave you and your regret now and get back to my swank job in a building that isn't going to be knocked down tomorrow.

Toodleoo,

Babcock McNierny
Permit Office and VP of Knocking Down Buildings
enc.

And Now...A Sonnet from Fat Shakespeare: The Portly Bard

Mine eyes doth feast upon your brisket;
My fork will follow suit.
Catch juices dripping with my bisquit;
Fill up my gut with fruit.
And then I'll taste that suckling pig;
And chew upon his tail.
Take you that tureen full of figs;
Bring me a jug of ale!
I'll take that flagon from your hand;
And fill it up with butter.
Tis me or is this meat pie bland?
Go toss it in the gutter!
Be this a whisker in this piece of fat?
You fiend! Dirty charlatan! Feeding me a rat!