Filthy Chicken Sex Problem

That's right Miss Kate, your darling innocent hubby just located my blog by doing a google search for '"sex problem" filthy chicken'.

Who's the sleazeball now? Sparklestone you may have Miss Kate fooled, but I know who you really are. People don't get us confused for nothing.

You're a sick, twisted, and very bored little man!

LAGNAF '91

In keeping with the theme from the Captain, I offer this.

My freshman year of college we started an all Greek party dubbed LAGNAF. There were three fraternities and three sororities, so it was a pretty good sized party, complete with a band and a dozen or so kegs. In later years we had to put up signs that said “Let’s All Get Nuts And Fraternize” because one of the Sorority advisors didn’t think ‘Let’s All Get Naked And Fornicate’ was enough of a compromise on the title.

I didn’t drink before college. I didn’t drink tequila before LAGNAF. And coincidentally, I didn’t drink tequila after LAGNAF either, at least not more than one shot in any given 6 month period. A comedian once mused that every shot of tequila is a different personality. You get too many of them in your head and all of a sudden they want out.

Somehow I ended up in a room sitting on a bed between my girlfriend and her best friend, with a large bottle of tequila sitting in front of us. Over the course of the week that followed LAGNAF thirteen people claimed to have done a tequila shot with me. I used to remember half of them, but now there is only one I remember. My final memory of the night involves a girl we’ll call T, since I can’t actually remember the rest of her name. We did a shot, and then with my arm around my girlfriend, and my other hand on her best friend’s knee, I leaned forward and started making out with T. The witnesses stood around watched in awe, waiting for my girlfriend to decide how to react. Finally she tapped me on the shoulder, and when I turned and looked at her she said:

“What are you doin’?”

“I dunno. Are you mad?” She considered the situation for a second or two and replied:

“Na.”

I remember making out with my girlfriend briefly, which seemed the appropriate thing to do, and then I remember pain. It took me weeks to figure it out. This immense pain in my arm pits had no explanation, and wasn’t exactly the kind of thing you talk about freely. LAGNAF also marks the one and only time I have ever woken up and not known where I was or how I got there. After I passed out they dragged me by my arm pits up two flights of stairs to the presidents room. There my girlfriend and her best friend watched over me, while all thirteen of those personalities vacated my stomach.

I awoke to the sight of Marilyn Monroe blowing me a kiss, with absolutely no memory of being sick. I actually saw a clean and empty bucket next to the hide-a-bed and felt quite proud of myself. Little did I know there was a large bruise on my chin from resting on the metal rail on the side of the bed most of the night.

The good news was that I discovered that I’m very resistant to hangovers.

Oh Canada

That's good stuff.

Paying our last respects

I’ll do this here instead of over commenting on the Captain’s blog.

My Grandmother died when I was seven. Outside of a few pictures I have of her, I have only two mental images of my Grandmother, neither of which were actually seen by me. The first is an aerial view of what it must have looked like for her to bend me over her knee and wipe my bottom. She did this a handful of times, and I always wished it wasn’t happening when it happened, so my memory of it is as a bystander.

The second image is while the paramedics were trying to revive her. I was not there when it happened. My mother was there. The only thing I learned from her death was that a seven year old didn’t need a detailed description of someone dying.

I learned a lot more from my Grandfather’s death when I was 19. I learned that mourners come in many varieties, but two types stand out in my family. There are those who do what they believe the living expect of them, and those who do what they believe the dead expect of them.

My Grandfather died from a clogged blood vessel in his neck. They knew it was a problem a year earlier. He knew it would kill him, but he felt that he had paid those greedy doctors enough already. He spent his last few days in a hospital bed staring at the ceiling and gasping for air.

My brother and I went to see him the evening he died. His body had not slept or acknowledged anyone’s presence for two days. My step-Grandmother had been waiting in his room the entire time, along with a handful of my uncles and aunts. When we walked in we went right to his bedside and a chorus of voices told us that he had not responded to anyone for days. My brother went to his right side where his arm was on top of the covers. I went to the other side. It was a scary thing to watch him trying to breath with this ventilator over his face. His eyes fixed straight ahead.

His left arm was under the covers, but I felt the need to hold his hand as my brother was doing. As I reached under his blankets and took his hand in mine his eyes darted over and looked right at me. I froze. He was still gasping for air. I felt completely helpless. Can he hear me? Should I say something? I felt like his eyes were trying to say something, or ask a question maybe. Something like “how did I do?” Or maybe “Can I go now?” I felt as if I were being asked to somehow judge his life. I felt like I needed to say something profound. All I could manage was a faint smile and a gentle squeeze of his hand.

“I think he’s looking at you.” I heard my brother say, and before he finished the words, my step-Grandmother replied with “NO, he hasn’t responded to anyone.”

His eyes slowly crept back to his spot on the ceiling. My brother and I said no more about him looking at me, but we know he did. Why me and not someone else is still a mystery.

It was at his funeral that I saw the real differences in how people mourn. It reminded me of all the kids who would cry on the last night of church camp. They cry because they feel obligated to do so. They cry because it’s fashionable, and it’s all too clear that it’s forced.

I had a job that summer working with an emergency forest fire fighter’s crew. I had a beeper and everything. My cousin saw the beeper, and asked why I brought it. “Aren’t you gonna turn it off?” All I could think of was the verse where Jesus says ‘Let the dead bury the dead.’ Our Grandfather not only had an incredible work ethic, he had invested in my education, and if I missed a single call I could have missed working for the entire summer.

“I don’t think that’s what he’d want me to do.”

My cousin was not impressed. I didn’t get a call that day, but I know leaving that beeper on was the right thing for me to do. If my cousin had a beeper, that would have been different.

My Kingdom for a Freezer full of Pistachios

My grandfather, like most grandfathers, was and interesting guy. He was born in 1902, which means he lived through the depression and carried it with him the rest of his life. He saved everything. He had coffee cans full of the rubber bands that came on the newspapers. He had 30 years worth of paper grocery bags neatly stacked in his workshop. In his retirement he improved his already green thumb, and he eventually got his picture in the paper once for growing some obnoxiously large plant in his backyard. (No, it wasn’t a mug shot for growing pot.)

When I went to college my parents insisted that I would appreciate it more If I paid for it myself. I wish they’d considered how much I would have appreciated not having student loans afterwards, but that ship has sailed. My parents wanted me to go to a religious school close by. That wasn’t happening. Oh I was still very religious then, but the school they wanted me to go to wasn’t exactly known for academic rigor. The college I did choose, though more expensive, was in the town where my Grandfather grew up. His father is buried there while all the rest of the family plots are in a completely different county.

As the time came near for me to make the final decision on schools, the word got out that I didn’t have enough money to afford the school of my choice. This secretly pleased my parents of course, but it was my Grandfather who came to the rescue. The year before there had been this freak hailstorm that hit my home town. The golf ball size hail had done serious damage across town, and my Granddad’s insurance had paid him a couple thousand dollars, which Granddad hid in a coffee can somewhere and never spent. He gave me that money to help pay for my first year of school. He had three sons, eleven grandchildren, and by then half a dozen great grand children. I was the only one he ever helped pay for college. It was a big “don’t mention this to anyone else” kind of thing. Somehow those things always manage to get out.

Over the next year my Grandfather really started to deteriorate. His mind wasn’t making the solid decisions it was renowned for. He started doing really weird stuff, like buying things in bulk that don’t need to be bought in bulk. He had seven of those little urinals truck drivers use. There were dozens of copies of a single book. In the end we found his outdoor freezer was full to the brim with pistachios, but his buying habits weren’t the only thing that went awry. Months after his death, I was told that there was something he kept saying during that period. Over and over, to virtually everyone who came to visit.

“Tell Sylow there’s no more money.”

It may not actually be the case, but I have this feeling that the last time I actually spoke to my Grandfather was the day he gave me that money. I went off and became a freshman in college, and he never heard from me again. He was deeply religious, so I sometimes feel a little guilty that I probably didn’t turn out the way he would have preferred. But even more so, I feel guilty for taking his money. I should have done more. I should have said thank you by calling every month, or sending him letters and cards, but I didn’t do that. I’m sure he’s over it by now. I’m just not sure that I’m over it.

On the up-side, I don't think anyone in the family can eat pistachios without thinking about Grandad.

Allow Me to Explain

We hide, my brothers and me. You see there were a lot of things we didn’t learn growing up. Not just the regular ineptitude at cooking and sorting laundry, I’m talking about some serious deficiencies in social interaction. Send a ‘thank you’ card? I told them in person, isn’t that better? Being seven years younger, I think I’m probably a little behind my brothers on the re-education process. SB has only had a few years to get me caught up, so I should be careful about lumping my brothers in on this.

A big deficiency is in good gift giving and gracious gift receiving. To explain I’ll offer two causal scenarios. First, for the last seven or eight years I lived with my parents every xmas they would take me to the mall and say “you have $50, get whatever you want.” They would then buy those things, wrap them up, and put them under the tree. I got in the habit of picking out things that all had the same size box, just so I could wonder which one was which.

I can’t begin to list the gifts my father has been ungrateful for. So I’ll tell you the last one I know about. After my Grandfather passed away, my dad decided he wanted to give each of his sons something that had been his. So, he gave my oldest brother a pocket watch he had bought for himself. Then he bought another pocket watch, kept it as his own for a few years, and gave it to the next son, etc. So, he was eventually without a pocket watch. My mother bought him one for xmas just a few years ago, the last xmas I will ever spend with them. My father used to collect coins. It’s a hobby he had to give up when he got laid off from his job in the early 1980’s. My mom bought him this nice pocket watch with a silver dollar mounted in the lid. He opened it up in front of me, my brother, nephew, and mom. He looked at it, frowned and said:

“Why’d you buy that? ... It’s not even a rare coin.”

Well, no shit dumb-ass. What moron would weld a rare and expensive coin into the lid of a pocket watch to get scratched and marred every time you let the grandkids play with it in church? Ungrateful pig; it’s no wonder I hate Christmas.

Still, the most damaging deficiency isn’t thank you cards, gift giving, or table manners. It’s our inability to deal with emotions or to empathize with someone else’s emotions. That's what we hide from. My oldest brother has it the worst I think. Like a pointy eared Vulcan he can raise one eyebrow, turn and walk away from any situation without so much as uttering a single word. Me, I hide behind bad jokes and poor humor. I’m the irritating twit who can tell a knock-knock joke while they’re dropping a casket into the ground. It may not be as physically offensive as Katherine Gallagher, but I still hate being that guy.

So, if you’re expecting me to say something warm and fuzzy, and instead I tell you the one about the preacher’s daughter, please believe that I’m actually trying to be supportive.

Mother and Daughter pg 19-20

From Chapter 3: Treatment for Habit of Masturbation

“There are times when children masturbate right under the eyes of their elders without the latter becoming aware of it. For this reason, any suspicious movements should be watched – such as when a boy has his hands in his pockets or a girl is continuously crossing her legs and rubbing her thighs together. Always interrupt such suspicious movements. [...]

Immoderate indulgence is apt to lead to complete nervous exhaustion with sparks or flashes before the eyes or a dry inflammation of the eyes or it may lead to serious functional sexual disturbances. Lack of energy, shyness, absent-mindedness and an inability to work may also result, and the habitual masturbator is almost always a melancholy person. It is, as stated, one of the major causes of impotency. [...]

Should the boy or girl in spite of a sincere desire to overcome the habit, be unable to do so, by all means consult a physician, who will prescribe medical treatment, which in almost every case will bring results.”

M.A. Horn, “Mother and Daughter”, 1949, pg. 19-20.
Posted without the consent of the author.

Just when you think you're out... Rebuttal

Here it is, a guest post from the man himself, Mr. Sparkle Stone.

I self-imposed a blogging day of rest yesterday. I have a
problem. That statement always reminds me of this guy I once knew who was addicted to hairspray. He was a housemate of mine and another housemate once walked into the addict's bathroom and found the floor (and all other surfaces to feel like the floor at a movie theater). He yelled out, "What the fuck?!?" And our addict was forced to admit, "I have a problem."

I have a problem. So, I took a day off.

Sylow tested my resolve and, may I say, tested it well. It was difficult to resist. At one point, all I could do to avoid the overwhelming urge to comment was to strangle one of my co-workers.

Today, I am a new man. Still, some things need answering:

This is what I said about grits and polenta, "If you smoke any more crack, your brains are going to turn into grits, or polenta...same difference." I meant that it didn't matter which sort of mush her brains turned into, mush was mush. Being a crackhead, she focused on the wrong thing.

The electronic door opener thing is true. My sister's friend’s husband DID it.

Sylow refers to my love of making homemade biscuits, [Administrator's note: sometimes spelled 'bagels', but pronounced 'beeskut'], and then smothering them in Spaghetti-Os. Something which many people find strange and repulsive but I feel will one day be validated as a great invention.

Sylow also mentions that I begged him to allow me to do the cataloguing for his toenail digital library project but failed to mention how it didn't require much begging. He also didn't mention our startling discovery: overall cleanliness isn't as big a factor on taste as you might think.

The stick thing goes too far. In the rough and tumble streets of Long Island, good times were few and far between. I won't stand to have them ridiculed.

Sparklestone

There you have it, straight from the horse's mouth. Don't worry about those few comments Sparky may have failed to address. He's still coming to grips with a few things.

Just when you think you're out...

We have a dilemma. Yesterday Sparklestone started a discussion about us all being slackers for not blogging on weekends. I followed up with a well played comment reminding him that some people have a real life on weekends. Unfortunately, Miss Kate attributed me with having an idea that might have been better than Sparky’s, and wouldn’t you know it, he got his little feelers hurt!

So today Sparklestone says he’s “taking a day off from blogging.” I’m certain Miss Kate would much rather he take a break on a weekend than on a Tuesday for crying out loud. The blogshpere has been challenged. I know he’ll be reading this, even if he says he won’t be posting. We need somebody to find a way to call him out today. We need Captain Underpants, the crackhead, RVP, red, j, and anyone else in blogland to come up with something to provoke dear old Sparklestone.

He’s a blog addict so it shouldn’t be tough. I’d do it all myself, but I can't think of anything good right now, and I’d rather not have to bring up the Coates Hall glory hole. I have a vague memory of some drunk spraining their ankle in Austin, but I can’t remember if that was him or not. I still get him confused with that other guy from grad school.

My Wife the Genius

I just want to point out how bleeding smart my wife is. She took this civil service test to get a better job. Actually, it’s a test to get the same job her boss has. They don’t make study guides for the exact test she took, so she studied books for every other kind of civil service test. Of course, none of that turned out to be on the test, but she studied very hard none-the-less.

Out of the 200+ people who take the exam when it’s offered, they hire 15. The last 15 to get hired all scored 96% and above, so that’s what SB was hoping for. When she went to take the test they started out by saying that this was a completely different form of the test. SB was really worried.

She got her scores Friday and she got a 94.6%. She was a little bummed at first because she thought that was a lower score. Then she saw her rank. She’s got the second highest score for the entire state. We got her a little chocolate cake with butter-cream filling that said

Congratulations

You’re #2

We went to a jazz club on Saturday, and despite the fact that we kept chanting “You’re number two” all night, no one actually got drunk enough to say “You’re the shit.”

I’m sure that if Sparklestone or Captain Underpants had been there things would have been different.

Totally Fucking Clueless pt.2

I think it’s important to note that I sent that letter long before they tried to contact me at Christmas. I’m not convinced that justifies my anger or actions at the time, but I have no qualms saying I was provoked to do something at the very least.

So, at the end of all that Christmas cheer, SB felt the need to send a thank you card for the gift she received. She opted out of doing that after we talked about it. I explained my fear that my barbarian mother would see that as an opportunity to become pen-pals with SB. From there she could start trying to impose her influence on me (and my marriage) through my wife. It’s not that SB wouldn’t be capable of seeing my mother’s motives. She’s a smart one. I just don’t want her to ever be the one to have to tell my parents to fuck off.

So back to the phone call from my older brother. I feel bad that he’s been turned into a moderator, but he seems to be the only person willing to deal with them on this level. [My oldest brother has to maintain a different relationship with my parents. He needs to be able to stay at their house when he makes the eight hour drive to visit his son.] So my older brother says he’s been asked to find out SB’s birthday because her mother-in-law wants to send her a card.

Now, the more I think about this request, the more irritating it becomes. SB’s mother-in-law is still not listening, and worse yet she's not thinking. I definitely used the word 'we' in my letter. Her continued actions cause me pain and nightmares. How could she possibly believe that SB, my wife, could forgive her for that?

My parents chose this. I told them two years ago that if they could not stop themselves from manipulating and bullying me, I would have no choice but to sever all contact with them. They chose not only to manipulate my vacation, they chose to manipulate SB’s vacation as well. They knowingly threaten my happiness and my health. They are anathema. I will not be safe as long as they let their stupidity guide them, and at this point I have no hope that their stupidity will ever abandon them.

They have ignored my wishes my entire life. It's time for them to ignore my existence as well.

It makes me sad. SB's parents treat me very well. I wish I could offer her the same. SB understands why I cannot. I'll feel safer when we move. I don't like knowing that my parents could show up on my doorstep someday. I'm even afraid to give my Nephew my new phone number, because I know what my mother would be willing to do to him to get it.

Totally Fucking Clueless pt.1

I suppose it’s time for an update on the ridiculous behavior of the two people entrusted with my care for 18 years. I got a call from my brother with the latest sign of my mother being totally fucking clueless, but let me recap the situation first.

I made it painfully clear that if they could not stop manipulating my life, I would sever all ties with them. Well, that didn’t last too long. Last May SB and I went on a 5,000 mile roadtrip. Part of the reason for the trip was a fraternity reunion at my alma matter, which happens to be about 20 miles away from where my parents and my Nephew and his mom live.

We were on a very tight schedule visiting friends briefly and moving on. At the time my mother was working at the Student Union of my alma matter, so she heard about the reunion. Now I certainly had no intention of visiting my parents. My Nephew was still in school and had soccer on the weekends, so I decided I would see him on the next trip. My manipulative mother however, decided she could get her way by first telling my Nephew I would be in town, and then arranging for him to be at their house the entire weekend I was scheduled to be in town for the reunion. Yeah, that’s a small example of her manipulative atrocities.

I was naïve enough to believe my dad would understand the score. For the last six years I lived with them, my dad’s job was four hours away from our house, so we actually lived in an apartment where his job was, and once a month we would drive back to the house to mow the lawn and all that kind of stuff. We would only be there for the weekend, but now and then my mother would invite friends or relatives over, and my dad would go ape-shit. He’d go on and on about how he had work to do around the house, blah, blah, blah. And he didn’t have time for company. Somehow, he managed to not see the connection to my situation with my Nephew.

My Nephew’s Mom called me at our hotel to explain the situation. She’s a licensed social worker, so she’s not oblivious to our family dynamics. She’s just looking out for her kid, who happened to really want to see me. She tried to arrange a time for me to see my Nephew before he got handed over to his grandparents for the weekend, but prior commitments trumped her efforts. SB and I rescheduled things so we could spend a few hours with my Nephew at his grandparents’ house.

So after we got back from the trip, I sent my parents the following letter, coincidentally written on my birthday.

5/21/2004
I am deeply saddened by your recent actions. I am appalled and ashamed for you. What I am not is surprised. This is exactly what we have come to expect from you. This latest incident is a perfect example of what you have become. It is a clear reminder of your inability to see yourself for what you really are.

In December of 2002 I told you the truth. You may not care to hear the truth about yourself, but hearing it is your only chance for becoming a better person. It is unfortunate that you choose not to listen. Since what I said then is relevant to what you’ve done now, I will remind you. In the interest of my own well being, this is the last time I will make any attempt to help you.

You are selfish and manipulative. Like a barbarian you stumble along with no understanding of right or wrong. You show no respect for your children or their right and ability to manage their own lives. I have nightmares for as much as a week after speaking to you, but you don’t care about what is best for me. You are the worst bully I have ever faced, and you are in complete denial of your brutality. This past year, having no contact with you has been the most peaceful time of my entire life. I believe you desperately need counseling.

I made one simple request in December of 2002. The request itself was of little importance compared to my need for you to honor that request. It was a test. I was trying to convince myself that you could be respectful if handled properly. You failed. After the inappropriate opinions you volunteered about my ex-wife, a request that you not involve yourself in my relationships seemed the best choice. I had hoped it would also teach you to understand boundaries. I failed to teach you anything. You made it through only one subsequent conversation without bullying me. Eliminating my contact with you was the only option left, and it was remarkably healthy for me. I had hope that my decision would finally be enough to convince you that YOU MUST CHANGE. Again, I was wrong.

I did not tell you I was coming to Idaho. This means, you had no right to tell [Nephew] I was coming. It was undeniably wrong for you to do this; wrong and stupid. It was manipulative and selfish. When [Nephew] found out I was coming, I had to choose between his well being and my own. That is a choice you are not mature enough to make. You risked [Nephew’s] health, my health, and my relationship with [Nephew] all for your own disgusting selfishness. This is what you have become. You are blind to all sense of appropriate interpersonal behavior, and you have no intention of accepting any responsibility.

I hope you can find the help you need, and I truly hope you find happiness someday. It will require you to become a better person, but I can no longer help you. I know you naively believe you know what is best, and you believe without question that you are in the right. This is why you need counseling. Please don’t call me; let me dream peaceful dreams. Don’t contact me in any way; I don’t need the reminder. I am happiest without you. Please let me remain that way.

Post continues at: Totally Fucking Clueless pt.2.

Book Recommendation

My friends over at http://www.inchoatus.com/ gave me a speculative fiction book recommendation I want to pass along.

Ted Chiang. Stories of Your Life and Others. (Also in paperback)

This is actually a collection of short stories, which means it’s perfect for people like me. I have a short attention span, and I ride the metro for 30 minutes getting to work each morning. Having a book while riding on public transportation is essential. Even if you’re not actually reading it, it’s the best way to avoid having the nutters talk to you. Well, acting like a nutter yourself is probably the best way, so maybe this is second best.

These stories are great, especially if you’re interested in science. You don’t have to be into science to get them, it just makes it a little more interesting.

Understand explores the possibilities of being able to use 100% of your brain, instead of just the 10% we use now.

Story of your life is about a linguist trying to communicate with an alien race. Not altogether different than communicating with the woman on the bus who enjoys poking lip balm up her nose. The alien language is very cool actually. It’s based on a way of thinking completely different from any language on Earth.

Division by Zero is actually about love and happiness, which means I didn’t get it at all. I think I was too busy trying to follow the math and missed the actual story. If anyone can explain it to me, I’d appreciate it.

I’ll let you know how the rest of the stories are after I’ve finished them all.

Calling the Real Vice President

Hey you; out there in California. Yeah, you sitting at home reading other Slister's blogs, I'm pretty sure 'we need a real vice president' was directed at you.

You better put that glitter-rock guy in his place before he runs all over your good name. You may need to fly back out to the other end of the continent and open a can of Ram-Ram-Whoop-Ass.

Followed by some Apple-Mamma's, of course.

Your Boy and His Sex Problem

That’s the title of chapter one of the ‘hygiene’ book my parents gave me when I was eight, "Father and Son" by the Rev. M.A. Horn, copyright 1949. But I’m getting ahead of my self. I should start at the beginning.

In early 1981 my family went to a movie called Paternity. Burt Reynolds plays a rich guy intent on living the bachelor life to the end of his days. The only problem is that he wants an heir to inherit his wealth and lifestyle. So he puts an add in the paper, and after a few interviews he hires a woman to bear his child.

It seems simple enough, but of course he has to have a man-child. So he reads all these books and determines that having sex standing up will be the only way to insure he will have a son. So there’s a scene in the movie when the parents to be are standing close (wearing bathrobes), and the brave mother to be sees a dead fish in the aquarium. With a tearful eye she says:

"Oh, it’s just lying there." To which Burt replies

"Well, give me a minute, will ya?"

Now this is probably where I should point out that I wasn’t the brightest eight-year-old in the theater, so after the movie I had to start asking, "What were they talking about. I don’t get it."
My dad, being himself disinterested in child rearing tasked my mother with presenting me with Rev. Horn’s fabulous 100-page guide to the nether regions. It's an ugly little book devoted to teaching abstinance by showing pages full of ‘syphalitic degenerates’. Rev. Horn maintains that any boy allowed to let his hands linger in his pockets for no reason will undoubtedly fall prey to "self-abuse". My parents, must have thought highly of my maturity, as I was accorded the right to also read the accompanying "Mother and Daughter", a companion book devoted to convincing young girls that if their husbands cheat on them it’s because they’re frigid. (Maybe I’ll elaborate on that theory in another posting.)

Now the books have been a considerable source of humor in my adulthood. I shared them with coworkers at my previous job, and my boss henceforth would always remove his hands from his pockets as I approached. Although, I never figured out if his smile came before or after his hands were removed.

So mom showed me the cross section of the boy part and explained how squirmies came out of there and went into the cross section of the girl part. I should reiterate that for an eight-year-old I was dumb; real dumb. The pictures were on different pages, and there was no hint that any actual contact was involved, so I didn’t assume such. My walnut brain saw two people sleeping in the same bed while the squirmies made their long trek to the other side of the bed, so I definitely didn’t get the impression that there was any enjoyment to be had in this process.
So I asked the only question that mattered to me. I had no idea what I was really asking, but today I thank the heavens for my stupidity.

"How long does it take?"

My mother didn’t flinch. She lowered her head, looked back at the cross section, and in a calm steady voice replied:

"Oh, not long."

Captain Underpants, you are not alone.