By: Ann Brown
I often scribble ideas for the blog on backs of envelopes and odd scraps of paper. I rarely remember where I put them or even that I have them. Still, I can’t stop. I am addicted to lists; making lists is my number three hobby, third only to looking for them and not finding them.
So you can imagine my delight the other day when an old, scribbled-on envelope fell out of my wallet at the dry cleaners, upon which were written scads of hilarious ideas. How lucky was that to find it at my local dry cleaners because I had a built-in audience on whom to try out my potential new material.
In big, black Sharpie marker I had written the title, “WHERE I DID NOT LIKE HIS PENIS”.
Two customers immediately left the place without their dry cleaning.
Now, personally, I think this might be the greatest title EVER for ANYTHING. The problem is, I have no recollection of what I intended to do with it. My notes are copious and in ink, which tells me I put a lot of time into writing them, and they are written in Dr. Seuss form, which tells me that I had been drinking.
Oh, wait. Drinking. Drinking…I’ve got it! I was at my sister’s place and all she had to offer us in way of beverages was pink lemonade and rum. Karen and her husband live about an hour from the nearest grocery store so, in the pioneer spirit that blazed the Oregon trails, we made do, and Old Rumaids became the cocktail of the weekend.
I think it was on a hike around their land one afternoon that the whole concept of “Where I Did Not Like His Penis” came to me. I’m pretty sure of that, come to think of it, because it was such a damn funny title that I had to hold on to an old Madrone tree just to keep from tipping over and spilling my drink. Luckily, I had Karen with me to confirm that, indeed, this was the most awesome, most hilarious title ever. She was on her third Old Rumaid.
Robin and Craig had sprinted off ahead of us, on the lookout for elk, ready to protect their women from the frequently-spotted beasts resting in the tall grasses. Robin and Craig, who had also been drinking, were seriously into their mission, noses high in the air to catch the scent of the elks (who, I imagine, had their own noses high in the air, saying to each other, “what the fuck are they drinking NOW, lemonade and rum? Great. Can’t wait to smell that again when the old guys pee off the balcony tonight”), moving stealthfully (save for the burping and farting) along the path and pointing out elk tracks by way of wild gesticulating to us to stop laughing so loudly lest we disturb the delicate harmonic convergence of the forest with our screaming such bon mots as, “I did not like it in my anus; Lord, I found that really heinous” and high-five-ing each other on our collective sisterly comedic brilliance.
Really, once you’ve experienced drunk hiking, there is no reason to hike any other way. No reason at all.
So, I am going to study these notes and see what I intended to say about where I did not like his penis. With a title as awesome as this one, the plot can really go pretty much anywhere.
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Originally published on The Seattle Lesbian
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