Balls and Walnuts
more than you ever wanted to know
Category Archives: Sex
Good eats
It has been ages since I blogged about sex — four whole days, if you count my recent nut sack memoir. When I look back at the past few days, I have to ask myself: Why all this angst over the state of medicine, when I could be talking about oral sex?
Check out that photo of Einstein. Not too many people know this, but it was this very photo which snagged Marilyn Monroe. One look at it and you just know Al could do the velvet bandsaw.
I contend that there isn’t enough oral sex in the world. Dubya’s second term would be far more successful if Laura cut the librarian act and pushed his head into the thatch once in a while. Dubya has clearly forgotten that his primary job is to serve the people, and service begins at home. Get lickin’, George! Look at your dad smoochin’ Barbara in the bleachers. G.H.W. Bush knows what to do with his mouth. All those goofy things Babs said at the Astrodome? That’s cuz G.H.W. had just sucked her silly, and 9/10 of her blood supply was devoted to a raging case of fem wood.
Yeah, there’s not enough oral sex in the world, especially among the religious right and the neocons. Clearly, if they aren’t getting any, they don’t want anyone else to, either. You know what we need? We need a bumper sticker campaign.
Eat a Muffin and Save a Soul
Fortunately for the world, the times may be changing.
A recent study reported that half of all teens in America (ages 15 to 19) have had oral sex. This study had a couple of interesting angles. First, numbers of guys and girls on the giving end were roughly equal, thus dispelling any sexist notions you might have that guys were browbeating their girls into going down on them. Go guys! You’ve clearly learned an important life lesson: ‘Tis better to give than to receive. Or, Thou shouldst damn well give if ye expect to receive. Something like that.
Second, and most disturbingly, there’s a trend among today’s youth to regard oral sex as a less than intimate act. Remember the baseball rules of high school sex? In my day, oral sex was a triple. Nowadays, it’s a walk.
Honestly, I don’t understand this. Your mouth is your most intimate organ. Think about it! It’s right next to your brain. You talk with it. You eat with it.
French kissing is the most intimate sex act. Sixty-nine is a close runner up. Screwing? It doesn’t even come close.
Doesn’t it say something that you can be unconscious and have intercourse? Only one person needs to be awake, and I’m not even sure about that. Considering the fact that guys get wood during REM sleep, it might be possible for two lovers sleeping in the buff to just sort of roll against each other in just the right way. It could happen.
I wonder if Michelle and Jim Bob Duggar have oral sex. Considering that Michelle has had fourteen vaginal deliveries, the possibilities are, well, wide open.
Me: Aw, come on. I got myself all hot and bothered writing tonight’s blog.
Karen: No. Uh-uh. This is a slippery slope —
Me: Hopefully.
Karen: If I give in to you on this, you’ll do nothing but blog about sex. Think how bad that will be for your traffic.
Me: Shows what you know.
Parting shot:
Wilma Flintstone or Betty Rubble? To hell with that; did you ever see any of the episodes where Pebbles and Bam Bam had grown up? I’ll take Pebbles. She looked tasty. Betty & Wilma were frumpy to the max.
D.
Say hello to my little friend
So Candy has a thing for Harry and the Danglers, eh? Candy, I dedicate this one to you.
For the first year or two after we got married, Karen and I lived on campus. I focused on my preclinical course work while Karen built lasers and TA’d undergrad chemistry.
One night, I noticed something new about my nuts.
“Karen. Look at this.”
“What?”
“It’s never done this before.”
“Oh, Christ, Doug. You could have warned me.”
“Now, come on. Look at it. Does this look familiar?”
Teeth clenched, lips not moving: “I don’t know.”
“You’ve looked at it. Doesn’t this look weird? . . . I mean, you have looked at it before, right?”
She made a careful study of my scrotum. Next to my right nad, I had a balloon-like swelling. It didn’t hurt, but it certainly didn’t belong there.
“I think there’s something called a hydrocele,” I said. “Or maybe a spermatocele. Or maybe it’s a hernia. Or a tumor.”
“You’re the medical student. Why are you asking me?”
“I was hoping maybe it had always been there, and I just hadn’t noticed.”
“Doug, your hands are down there a hell of a lot more often than mine are. If anyone would know, you would.”
Good point.
I decided to go to the student health center on campus. There had to be a night nurse there, right? Maybe even a more advanced medical student, someone who had seen a few testes. Maybe even a doctor.
By the time I got there, I was anxious as a tom cat in heat. I charged in, found the nurse, pulled her aside into the hallway. We were all alone, she and I, but I didn’t exactly want to do this in the waiting room.
“Look at this, would you? This just isn’t right.”
I dropped my pants and framed it with my hands, just like this:
Only instead of a smiley hacky sack, I had my hairy nut sack well in hand.
“I was getting ready for bed when I noticed it,” I said. I moved it this way and that, gave it a good going over like I already had a dozen times that night. “It’s never been like this before, I’m sure of it. My wife doesn’t even recognize it. I was getting ready for bed, and, like, I don’t know, maybe I was scratching myself, I mean it’s not like I’m scratching myself all the time, but this time when I did I felt this big swollen thing that had no business being there. I mean, look at it. I’m a medical student, but I don’t know what this is. I dunno, maybe a hydrocele, or a spermatocele, or a hernia, or, oh God, please don’t tell me you think it’s a tumor. You don’t, do you?”
I looked away from my right nut and looked her in the eye for the first time. She kinda looked like this.
“I — I — I’ll get the nurse.”
She was an undergrad, eighteen years old tops. Probably a volunteer.
“Um, sorry,” I said as I stuffed my goods back in my pants. “Busy clinic like this, I’ll bet you see that all the time.”
She backed away, stricken. I never saw her again. She didn’t call, didn’t write. As for me, my little visitor disappeared by the next morning. He never showed up again, either.
***
This is my entry for Demented Michelle‘s Halloween Trick or Treat Prank Contest. It’s not much of a prank, but it’s all I got. And, gee whiz — if I’d been putting her on, it would have been one hell of a trick, eh?
D.
The New Good Bad Sex Contest
Props to Gabriele for pointing me to this Guardian Unlimited article on the Bad Sex Award. Pub date may have been December, 2004, but it was news to me.
(Folks who want to cut to the chase (foreplay haters!) scroll down to The Contest in big, bold letters below.)
Here’s a snip from the first place award winner, Tom Wolfe’s I Am Charlotte Simmons:
Slither slither slither slither went the tongue, but the hand that was what she tried to concentrate on, the hand, since it has the entire terrain of her torso to explore and not just the otorhinolaryngological caverns – oh God, it was not just at the border where the flesh of the breast joins the pectoral sheath of the chest – no, the hand was cupping her entire right – Now! She must say “No, Hoyt” and talk to him like a dog. . .
You can read the rest of it (and more!) at the Guardian Unlimited link. For now, I have one comment before I get to the contest.
Otorhinolarynological?
Us ear, nose, and throat doctors don’t even use that word. Even its simpler form, otolaryngologist, is anathema. No one can pronounce it. I had to go through five years of residency to learn to pronounce it. It’s true!
Here’s the deal. We used to be ear, nose, and throat doctors. Then the general surgeons started calling us booger-pickers and snot docs, and we decided a la Rodney Dangerfield that we don’t get no respect, no respect at all. Some wag got out his Greek dictionary and figured out,
oto = ear
rhino = nose
laryng = throat
and we became otorhinolaryngologists.
Instant disaster. The Yellow Pages started charging us for the extra letters. ENTs began committing seppuku because, in addition to “Hey, can you see through to the other side?”* and “Huh?”** we now had to hear “How do you pronounce that?” TWENTY TIMES A DAY.
It didn’t help when we became otolaryngologists. If anything, life became worse. The word was slightly smaller than otorhinolaryngologist, having lost the rhino, and some folks thought perhaps they could pronounce it now. They couldn’t.
Some European dude thought ORL would be better. Catchy, easy to pronounce. Everyone loves acronyms. But then some American dude said, “Hey, wait a second. We do a lot more than ears, nose, and throat. We do cancer surgery, too! We’re head and neck surgeons. We’re ORL-HNS!”
Someone, probably a small town private practice doc like me, had the bright idea of going back to ENT, and we lived happily ever after.
So, what’s up with Tom Wolfe’s use of ‘otorhinolaryngological’? I think Mr. Wolfe is trying to say that sex is an ungainly, awkward, breathless experience, rather like saying otorhinolaryngological. And if we say pseudopseudohypoparathyroidism, we may even need to change our underwear.
Anyway, let’s talk about sex. Let’s do better than talk about it; let’s have a contest! Yes, I’m shamelessly copycatting. The Smart Bitches held one not long ago. Demented Michelle has a cool Halloween contest at her place. Mine, naturally, will be about Le Bad Sex.
A. You don’t even have to write a complete scene. Give me a sentence. A sentence fragment. Like that one. Or this one. Just make it reek to high heaven, okay? It’s like the Bad Hemingway contest without the machisimo. Or maybe with the machisimo, if that’s what floats your boat.
B. Two hundred words or less. Don’t get carried away or I’ll hurt you.
C. Use this post for entries only. I will post a chat thread below this one for comments and questions.
D. The prize: a $20 gift certificate to Barnes & Noble books, BUT: if you promote this contest on your blog or website, AND if you win, I’ll make it a $30 gift certificate. (When you post your entry, tell me where you have posted your promo.)
E. Entries will be judged by my ten-year-old son Jake.
F. Just kidding! Jeez, that would be a total buzz kill, eh? No, we’ll judge this like we do at the Writers BBS. Email me your votes for 1st, 2nd, and 3rd place. You may not vote for yourself. Scoring will be based on a point system: 1st place is 5 points, 2nd is 3 points, and 3rd is one point.
G. Multiple entries are allowed. In fact, multiple entries are usually necessary to achieve optimal results. *um, sorry, couldn’t help myself*
H. Contest begins: NOW!
I. Contest ends: Midnight, Pacific Standard Time, Tuesday, October 18th.
J. Voting begins: immediately after the contest ends.
K. Voting ends: Midnight, Pacific Standard Time, Thursday, October 20th.
L. You must enter the contest to vote. Sorry, but if any of y’all are as Type A as I am, you’ll probably end up paying winos to go to their local libraries, hop on the computer, and vote for you, just so you’ll win some dumb gift certificate. And besides, I’m trying to encourage entries.
New!!! M. You may enter as many times as you like.
Enjoy!
D.
*The ENT looks into his patient’s ear.
“Hey, doc, can you see through to the other side?”
“Ya know, I could, except there are these two walnuts rolling around that are getting in the way.”
**The ENT says, “So, Mr. Patient, how’s your hearing?”
“Huh?” (Followed forthwith by eager I’ll bet you never heard that one smile.)
My wife is one fine piece of arm
How low will I stoop to draw blog traffic?
That’s a difficult question. Yesterday, I learned over at Non Compos Mentis that I’ve been going about it all wrong. Why putz around with Technorati tags when one photo of nude women wrestling, appropriately labeled (or inappropriately labeled, as you shall soon see), will launch your blog into the stratosphere? Sex. Free porn. Nude photos. That’s where the action is.
I have two problems with this plan.
One: most of y’all are of the feminine persuasion, and while I don’t think of you as prudes, I don’t want to alienate you, either. You come here for the humor (I hope), not for photos of naked women making out. If I did put up photos of women with huge breasts french-kissing, you would think that I had photoshopped Ann Coulter’s and Michelle Malkin’s faces onto the relevant parties first. And you’d be right.
Two: if I do something like this, it had better be funny. Despite the things I say sometimes, I’m not a blog traffic whore. Much. I mean, I have to draw the line somewhere, and shameless exploitation of anyone except me, my wife, my son, and certain media figures who richly deserve it — oh, and actors and actresses and other people who catch my attention, not to mention old friends and acquaintances and other family members, associates, and folks I meet in the blogosphere — well, it’s just not right, and I’m not going to do it.
Besides: do I really want tons of traffic from pimply faced kids with megadoses of testosterone surging through their bloodstream? Well, sure, if they decide to stick around for the humor.
These two concerns have led me to make the following two self-imposed requirements. Any naked skin which I show on this site will be (1) non-exploitative, and (2) humorous in some way.
Before I unveil my creation, I need to do something first. I have to frame the image with lots of raunchy words. I apologize if you’re offended by phrases such as
Tasty Bulgarian virgins bare all!!!!
Shaved underage midgets engage in unspeakable acts!!!!
Tentacle sex, cold pasta fetish, exquisite tickle torture, and more!!!!
HOT HOT HOT HOT HOT HOT!!!
You must be 18 years old or older to view the image below. Click here if you are under 18.
Behold:
Girls so young they have acne on their tender buttocks!
Scroll down for more!!!!
Okay, I’m back. That’s Karen’s arm, bent at the elbow. Now think about all the thirteen- and fourteen-year-olds across America who are doing unspeakable things with that image up on their computers.
See how much she loves me?
D.
At least you girls have Fabio
I’m feeling a bit wiped out from my editing work, so I decided to hand today’s blog off to Bare Rump. In case you don’t know her, Bare Rump is a ten-foot-long, eight-legged research scientist from the Tromatopelman planet M833-G1a. Like the rest of her kind, she has a rather odd take on romance which I’m sure you will appreciate. Actually, Bare Rump is an atypical Tromatopelman female; she’s had her share of lovers, but presently enjoys a long term relationship with a Grith Lyssome intelligence officer whom she calls Lord Valor.
As for why Bare Rump is here on Earth, you can read more about that here.
Oof. That’s it for me. Be nice to my favorite girl.
Bare Rump here, y’all. (Ooh, my Texas time is showing!) Doug wanted to take a bit of time off from the blog, and since I have been ever so negligent updating mine, I volunteered. Lord Valor offered, but what could he write about? Poop and software, that’s all my lover knows. Well, he also understands how to show a girl a good time. Dear me yes. If only you could see the way he rolls me onto my dorsum and sets me a-quiver with that magical proboscis of his — but, heck! This isn’t the Epigynum Monologues, for gosh sakes.
Doug has left it up to me to introduce you to my planet’s top-selling Romance novelist, Bronwyn Webweaver. A bit of background: Bronwyn was born the only daughter in an egg sac of eight. She excelled at her schoolwork and rapidly grew big and strong. As an only daughter, she had to skip college and take work as a legal secretary. “I could type fast but couldn’t spell. I was the worst legal secretary ever,” she says now.
She took a mate who survived their first encounter only to get too zealous on the second. Now fat and pregnant, Bronwyn took a job as a botanist’s assistant at the University of South Underland. Her work forced her aboveground on a daily basis, collecting moss and lichen samples for her bosses. The now famous mugwasp storm of 4079 forced her to stick to her tunnels, and out of boredom, she took up a pencil and notepad and wrote out the rough draft for her first novel, Silk Bondage (4080).
Silk Bondage suffers from first novel syndrome, sadly. Way too much angst and not enough sex. For my money, Web of Desire (4081) was her first true hit.
I love this book, but Miss Webweaver, puh-lease, what is up with your cover artist? Start with those silk sheets. Girl, it looks like your red-kneed hobag of a heroine has just worked her way through the entire South Underland Males’ Varsity Yabbaball Team on those very sheets. My advice? Find a good dry cleaner.
And those little black balls. Are those . . . no, please don’t tell me those are thought bubbles. Your heroine apparently fantasizes about beady-eyed males with Fu Manchu pedipalps. And where are the rest of his legs? Good God, girl, have you been snacking?
I have only one word to say about the male on the cover of Bronwyn’s next book:
HAWT.
Take me, take me now, you great savage wonderful hairy bastard you. Burn me with those Palps of Fire. I promise I won’t even snark on that weird-ass floral arrangement you have on the left margin — what is that, Baby’s Breath? — okay, I said I wouldn’t snark. But gaaawd look at those stout glorious pedipalps. You know they don’t make pedipalps that big in nature, so what is this, some sort of cruel photoshopping stunt? Cover artists are mean bitches, I tell ya.
Only one problem. He’s a little too perfect. He’s like, “Look at me, God’s gift to females. You’d be lucky to come within a mile of my sperm web,” and I’d be like, “Dude, if you don’t get over yourself, I’m going to fix those two buttonholes on your thorax,” and he’ll be all, “I don’t have two buttonholes,” and then WHAM! I’d be all, “You do now, dude.”
Um, Doug? Don’t let Lord Valor read those last two paragraphs. He can be awfully possessive.
And now, on to my favorite Bronwyn Webweaver novel:
“I salivated for days!” says Emma Longfang of the Silken Times. Yeah, you would, Emma. You haven’t tasted male-meat in decades, you desiccated skank hobag. (That’ll teach you to snark on my abdominal hair condition on network TV, bitch.)
Damn, she pisses me off. Such a perfect cover, and Emma “Drool Problem” Longass has to ruin it with her stupid witticisms — not. Grrrr.
Okay. Take a deep breath, clear head, concentrate on Sex at Seven, Dinner at Eight. Aaah.
Everything about this book is perfect. Start with the title: why not treat copulatory arachnicide with honesty and a sense of fun? Girls, be honest: who among you hasn’t sucked dry your share of males? The one who says no, she’s an anorexic. You humans aren’t so different than us.
Then there’s that dude on the table. Man, they don’t get more dashing than that. Yeah, he looks like he’s about ready to dash clean off the table before I get my chance to pounce. And the way he’s holding his forelegs, he almost looks intelligent, don’t ya think? Sure, it’s not realistic, since most of our males can’t be trusted to dig a tunnel without burying themselves alive. But a girl can dream.
He sure is one handsome bad-ass brute. Only thing I don’t like about it is the wine glass. If I have to listen to one more “I don’t drink . . . wine” joke, I’m going to barf. And you wouldn’t like me when I barf.
As for the story, here’s the deal. Bawb is a handsome young home-spinner who gets drunk one night with his buddies. One of them, Dood, bets Bawb that he can’t survive six matings in a row with the ladies from the Girls Who Don’t Suck dating service. Bawb takes the bet, figuring he won’t mind too much if he loses since he’ll be dead. Little does he know that Dood has lined up his sister Scythee as Bawb’s last date. Scythee is legendary in their community; no male has ever survived her embrace. Will she be his last date, literally?
WARNING! SPOILERS!
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Bawb’s sister warns Bawb of Dood’s trickery and tells him to tell Scythee that he (Bawb) has a rare blood disease, making him unpalatable. The first five girls learn about Bawb’s supposed blood disease and they are righteously pissed that he didn’t warn them. Comical hijinks follow. Meanwhile, Scythee has little else to do but admire Bawb’s good looks, and, lo and behold, she falls in love with him. She saves Bawb from the other girls’ attacks.
Bawb desperately wants to inseminate Scythee, but Scythee is leery of the blood disease. Bawb gets his sister to explain everything. Scythee falls in love with Bawb’s sister. Together, they eat Bawb and then take a long vacation in the Crystal Caverns.
Groucho snarks proto-muffin: myth or reality?
From snopes.com, the urban legend clearinghouse:
The most infamous remark of Groucho’s You Bet Your Life years supposedly occurred when he was interviewing a Mrs. Story, a contestant with twenty-two children (reputedly the largest family in America at the time):
GROUCHO: “Why do you have so many children? That’s a big responsibility and a big burden.”MRS. STORY: “Well, because I love my children and I think that’s our purpose here on Earth, and I love my husband.”GROUCHO: “I love my cigar, too, but I take it out of my mouth once in a while.
True or false? Read the whole story here.
D.
Lame Reasons to Have Sex #3
Karen: Uh-uh.
Me: You realize, you’re contributing to my risk factors for prostate cancer.
Karen: Oh, that is weak. Besides, I thought you had your bases covered with all that fiddling.
Me: Damn.
D.
How many is too many?
Meet the Duggar family.
Note that (Head Count) – Mom – Dad = 14. This is the Duggar family circa 2004, before #15 arrived. The Duggars were the subject of a Discovery Health channel documentary, “14 Children and Pregnant Again!”, which airs again on October 27 and October 29. Here’s the blurb:
“The Duggars are letting God dictate how many children they have and, with nine boys, five girls, and one on the way, Jim Bob and Michelle feel blessed many times over! Find out how the Duggars coordinate a household that would challenge any manager.”
Before discussing precisely how the Duggars coordinate that household, let’s get some Guinness Book of World Records perspective. According to sexualrecords.com, the 2001 Guinness Book gives the record to “the first wife of Feodor Vassilyev (1707-1782) of Shuya, Russia”: 69 children, many of them multiple births, 67 of whom survived infancy. In recent times, the record belongs to “Leontina Albina from San Antonio, Chile. Now in her mid-sixties, Leontina claims to be the mother of 64 children, of which only 55 of them are documented”.
Can we at least agree that 55 children is too many?
Back to the Duggars. Never mind that Jim Bob and Michelle dress their children like clones and give them names, ALL of them, that start with J (including Jinger — pronounced Ginger, in case you’re wondering). Never mind that the white suprem acist website st0rrmf runt dot org* luuurves the Duggars cuz they’re bringin’ all them white Christian babies into the world. After all, the Duggars can’t help it if they’ve become the neo-Knotsies’ poster family.
No. What I wonder is whether Jim Bob and Michelle are doing the job. Not that job — obviously, they’re doing very little else. I mean the job of parenting.
Take a look at the Quiverfull FAQ. Here’s their response to the question (not really a question, but what the hey), “You won’t be able to give as much time or attention to a dozen kids as you could to just two or three”:
“We trust that God will give us the ability to meet the needs of all the children He gives us — and that includes their need for love and attention as well as material needs.”
Read the rest, if you like. They go on to talk about all the great parenting opportunities you get eating and praying together as a family. And don’t forget the joys of having ten or more siblings:
“[H]ow could we consider robbing our children of the opportunity for a life-time of shared experiences with another brother or sister, in exchange for a theoretical increase in attention from their parents?”
I have a brother and a sister. One each. Did I really need to have another ten of ’em to get that wonderful experience? Damn it, I’m going to call my parents and tell them I’ve been ROBBED.
Karen and I got tweaked over the Duggars, the Prairie Muffins, and the Quiverfull folks thanks to the comments thread for this post at The News Blog. That thread led Karen to discover the Television Without Pity website, which, when it comes to television programming, has to be the snarkiest of the snarky snark. They truly live up to their name. Anyway, for the last four days, Karen has been a slave to TWP’s two hundred page thread of comments in response to “14 Children and Pregnant Again!” Since we haven’t watched the show, our understanding of its content comes from that comment thread. (Check it out, but prepare to be addicted. Some of the posters are hilarious — e.g., “I think my tubes just spontaneously tied themselves.”)
Remember, “Find out how the Duggars coordinate a household that would challenge any manager”? Here are a few highlights of the Duggars’ managerial, I mean child-rearing, methods.
- The kids are home-schooled. Their only outside contact is with other Fundamentalist Christian families; they don’t even go to church (they hold services at home).
- There’s a “buddy system” in place to care for newly weaned infants. Eight- to ten-year-old children are charged with care responsibilities for children under two. Where’s mom? Giving suck to the next in line.
- With fourteen (now fifteen) kids on board, economies must be observed. The photo above is the rule, not the exception: the kids all dress in the same clothes. The program also focused on meals in the Duggar household — they sure like Tater Tot casserole!
- In a household of this size, the chores are enormous. Each child is given his/her “jurisdiction”. A six-year-old is responsible for all of the laundry, and so forth.
Some of you will no doubt point out that in past generations, this, or something close to it, was the norm. But consider:
Back then, such folks lived on farms, and the numbers were necessary to provide labor.
Back then, infant mortality claimed a sizable share of the family.
Back then, birth control was illegal, unavailable, or (if available) next to useless.
Back then, a child wasn’t expected to do much more than finish grade school and learn a trade (or work on the family farm). With scaled-down expectations, and with the fruits of a family farm (such as a ready supply of chicken eggs and cow’s milk), a husband and wife could provide for a large family in what was, at the time, a respectably ample fashion.
Back then, what opportunities did a woman have? It was the rare woman who could rise above this fate.
Yes, you can argue that this is a free country. The Duggars are self-sufficient thanks to Jim Bob’s real estate investments, so they’re not living on the public dole. Why shouldn’t they procreate like bunnies, if that’s what they want?
I worry about the kids. Except for the youngest (the one lucky enough to be born just before Michelle Duggar’s uterus commits seppuku), they’ll grow up without a childhood, and they’ll grow up knowing nothing else but the Duggar Way. I can’t help but think the Duggars are carrying their freedom a little too far.
Further reading (in case you found this post last): So you want to be a Prairie Muffin?
D.
*I don’t particularly want these guys sniffing around my website, you know what I mean? Hence the misspellings. Google the Duggars and you’ll find plenty of Knotsie links.
Lame Reasons to Have Sex #2
Karen: NO.
Me: But it’s my second day after my birthday day!
Karen: Grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr.
D.
Lame Reasons to Have Sex #1
Karen: Not tonight.
Me: I hope your conscience doesn’t bother you too much, what with the shrinking rainforests and all.
Karen: Huh?
Me: Well, you’re wasting perfectly good wood. Heh heh. I just thought that one up.
Karen: I figured.
D.