I Know Why You're Here (Nudge Nudge, Wink Wink)

You’re here because you want to hear about the great time my cousin David and I had at the Boston College – Georgia Tech game on Saturday. Well, it wasn’t a very great day for BC. They lost and they deserved to lose. We’ve been spoiled having Matt Ryan at quarterback the past couple of years. Chris Crane is not Matt Ryan. An apt comparison would be the Patriots with Tom Brady, but then having to go with Matt Cassel at QB. Thank God that will never happen.

BC got on the board first with a field goal, but then...

What’s that? You don’t want to hear about the football game? Oh, you must want to hear about MY WIFE’s trip to New York to visit her brother. OK. I can understand that. I know you all love to hear about MY WIFE. She took the bus, and met him at...

Huh? You don't want to hear about that? What the...?

Oh, I know! You came because I promised you an entertaining and well-written family story. Yes, those are always received warmly. And, let me tell you, I appreciate it, too. I work very hard on them.

My Aunt Anna (actually, my great aunt) was an interesting woman. She was a lifelong old-line Democrat - and as stubborn as that political party’s symbol, too. The tale I’m about to tell you took place in 1950.

At that time, Anna lived in the White City Apartments in Jamaica Plain, a section of Boston, along with her husband, Roy (whose mustache and funeral you’ve read about before) and their daughters, Patty and Dolly Ann (you know her these days as Dorothy.)

Well, it seems that the landlord of those apartments was a mean and miserable son of a bitch. One year, he more-or-less shut off the heat, right in the dead of winter. Well, Aunt Anna was NOT one to take such a thing lying down. She decided to...

Oh, for goodness’ sakes! That's not what you came here for, either? Then just what in the name of hell...

Oh. Right.

You came here because I promised you a picture of a naked woman.

Pervert! That’s the thanks I get, slaving over a hot blog for three years. I give you lovely and touching stories about my family. I favor you with big old batches of superbly original jokes. I give you an occasional well-thought-out extremely mature political discourse. I even try to complete every one of those wretched memes you keep inflicting on me. A few of you who are loyal come back every day – you know who you are, and you know that I love you – but, when I promise to post a picture of a naked woman, hundreds of heavy-breathing strangers plop themselves down in the front row, zippers undone and drool hanging from their lower lips. Nice.

Can’t say that I blame them. I have some pretty hot women hanging around these parts. When I say that one of them sent me a nudie, I can understand the excitement. But, damn.

Well, I guess I did promise it to you. Despite all appearances to the contrary, I'm a man of my word.

(The word is "moron", by the way.)

And it certainly wouldn’t be nice of me to blow off the person who sent me the picture, that’s for sure. She took quite a risk. I know for a fact she’s a married woman. I can’t imagine her husband is very pleased that she’s sending me pin-ups.

I suppose first I should spill the beans about who sent me the picture. It was Crazy Cath, once again living up to her name.

(I suppose when you’re a psychiatric nurse by trade, you run into all sorts of weirdness. A little nudity probably seems quite tame when compared to people who think they’re chickens and whatnot.)

Also working in her favor is the fact that I’m in America, whereas she’s way over the sea in Great Britain. Huge distances have a way of mitigating embarrassment. If, for instance, the lovely-yet-surprisingly-affordable Tara had really sent me a photo (as she hollowly promised in the comments last time) then the relative lack of miles separating us might have made it appear to be a more salacious and marriage-threatening gesture. I could pretty much walk to her place (albeit with a slight limp) if her photograph gave me wood. To get to Crazy Cath’s, I’d have to swim for a couple of weeks. And there’s enough cold water in the Atlantic Ocean to quell the ardor of even a confirmed hornball like me.

Maybe.

Oh, keep your pants on! And I mean that literally. I’ll get to the picture soon enough. In the meantime, you could at least pretend to be interested in my writing.

Aw, who am I kidding? You’ve all scrolled down already and seen it. Nobody’s reading this sentence. I could be writing about walrus futures on the Bolivian stock exchange and nobody would know the difference.

(By the way, did you know that a Walrus has a bone in his penis? A male walrus, I mean. The female gets the bone someplace else. I seem to remember hearing about this from Fat Hairy Bastard, who is down at the bottom right now and doesn’t even know I’ve mentioned his name. Anyway, he wrote about how he had a letter opener made from a walrus penis bone. That’s life for you, and a perfect simile for what I’m doing here at this very moment. You come into this life a perfectly normal walrus, with a fine upstanding walrus penis, and what happens? Your penis ends up being used as a letter opener.

OK, maybe it’s not a perfect simile...)

All right then. I suppose that’s enough bullshit to fill out the space here. It is now time to reveal the picture sent to me by Crazy Cath.







Keep going.









I’m putting space here so that some innocent kid who just happened to be Googling "walrus" for a school project doesn’t inadvertently see a whole bunch of naked flesh.










Of course, if he’s any sort of a kid like I was, he already feverishly scrolled down, played with himself, cleaned up, and now he’s writing his paper about walruses (walrussae?) with a smile on his face. He’ll get a B, if he can refrain from mentioning penis bones. But, again, if he’s any sort of a kid like me, he won’t be able to resist. In which case he’ll be suspended and I’ll probably end up being charged with contributing to the delinquency of a minor.










By the way, I bet you never thought you’d see "played with himself" and "walruses" in the same sentence. Well, now you have – twice.










I guess that’s enough space. OK. Here’s what Crazy Cath sent me!











Oh, I suppose I should mention that there are actually THREE females in this picture. It is a menage a twat.










(I thought long and hard about including that joke. Very long, very hard. Well, very hard, anyway. I wondered whether it was too crude even by my loose standards. In the end, I figured that any post which already included walrus penis bones wasn't going to win a Pulitzer, so why not?)









OK, here it is!





Oh, come on! You knew it had to be something like this. Did you really, truly expect an actual photograph of a woman’s naughty bits? If you did, I suppose you’re highly disappointed. Especially if you’re that school kid who Googled "walrus."

(You shouldn’t be too disappointed. If you go back to the previous post and parse my words, you’ll see that I was very careful to not use the word "photograph." And every clue I gave was absolutely true. Also, while I said that Crazy Cath sent me the picture – which she did – I never once said it was a picture of her.)

And now, you filthy-minded pervert, don’t you wish I had written about any of the other three things I mentioned at the beginning? I know I sure do.

Soon, with fewer walrus penises.