I was going through some pictures today, trying to figure out what I missed reporting on in the past year and found this windshield wiper.
I guess I took this picture towards the end of Jen’s second pregnancy, as the doctor pulled out a condom that looked like a wind sock and I passed out.
I had clearly acknowledged that this was going to be an internal exam.
I guess I’m just lucky I didn’t bang my head off the mustard bottle filled with lube and lose an eye.
I didn’t feel the need to get Jen anything for Valentine’s Day this year, because, quite honestly, what else could I get her that had a ‘deeper’ meaning?
Wasn’t this enough? Having your lungs punctured from the inside out? I guess I could’ve added some girth, but hey, Rome wasn’t built in a day and I’m no engineer of cervical tools.
I drove home in silence, cringing at any phallic roadside objects, bit the lid off a cold one and sat in the dark watching a TV that wasn’t even on.
Shit. I can never watch ET the same way again. Nor will I be able to listen to Neil Diamond’s Heartlight or eat Reece’s Pieces. Thanks a lot, guy. You have officially fucked up my daily routine.