Mixing up my phrases and whatnot…and being a douche.

Last night, I went to Barnes & Noble (my mecca) with a friend.  When we arrived, we had a couple of choices for parking, and we decided that we would take “the pull through” spot (the spot that you pull through to from the space behind it so that you are facing out of the spot – ready to go).

And the conversation actually went like that – “wanna take that one or the pull through?”


we both said that “the pull through” sounded like it could be a sexual euphemism of some sort.

And the conversation went like this:

Me: “It sounds like something dirty.”

Friend: “I know!”

Me: “You know, it sounds like you’re saying something like….fruit salad.”


Fruit salad.




And my friend rolled with it (mainly because she had no fucking clue what I was talking about) and laughed and said, “yeah, you’re right.”


But, then I thought…what the fuck is “fruit salad” a euphemism for?

Answer: It’s not a euphemism for anything.  (Well, not that I am aware of anyway.)


Then it dawned on me.  And I said, “Nope, sorry.  I am mixing up my euphemisms.”

I then explained to my friend that what I meant to say was “tossing the salad“.  And I mixed that up with another colorful euphemism – “the fruit cup“.


Silly me.


We laughed and 3 1/2 minutes later, still giddy from all the weird euphemisms, we were in the bookstore and looking at magazines.  My friend looked at an entertainment magazine featuring The Hunger Games and I looked at a cerebral pompous film critique magazine (yes, I bought it), and an Asian gentleman was on his blue tooth looking at magazines near the floor.  We started discussing the upcoming Hunger Games film, at which point the Asian gentleman looked up, gestured toward my friend, said, “Nice [something in a heavy Asian accent]”, and then walked away.


My friend looked at me and said, “What did he just say?”

I looked at her and, with all the solemnity I could muster, whispered, “He said ‘nice tits‘”.

Her face went blank for a second before she realized I was being a shit and said, “No, he did not!”

I said, “You don’t know that.  He might have said nice tits.  He may have even asked for a fruit salad.”




DISCLAIMER: Do not read further if you don’t want to read about my boobs.

I had my first mammogram today.  And it was NOT THAT BAD.  Seriously.  For one thing, my appointment was for 4:45 and I was done by 4:57.  And that included the paperwork.  Although everyone told me it was going to be horrid, it really was not.

What I did not anticipate, however, was finding the experience REALLY FUCKING FUNNY.

I had a nice woman to help, who I am sure has seen 85,742 breasts in her career – give or take.  As I stood there naked from the waist up, modesty took a back seat to “let’s get ‘er done”.  She told me that I just needed to step up to the machine (platform with clear glass plate above), and she’d “do all the work”.  The process basically involved her hoisting a tit onto the plate.  Yes, I said “hoisting a tit”.  My boobs are too big to warrant delicate language like “she gently lifted my breast…”  No, no, no.  She HOISTED A TIT.  Once she did that, she got it into place by kneading it like dough.  Then she squashed it.  (She squashed tit.  hahaha)

And, I don’t know what it was… the hoisting part…the kneading…the looking at my boob impersonating a pancake…the pure absurdity of having someone else handle my breasts like slabs of meat…. but I had the urge to LAUGH HYSTERICALLY.  At one point, she told me to turn my head towards her, and I was afraid to because I was biting my lip to keep from laughing – and I knew…I KNEW… she would see this and think I was some crazy “laughs at mammograms” person.  But… It.  Was.  The.  Funniest.  Thing.  Ever.

After each image was taken, she said, “take a step back”.  What she forgot to say was “peel your boob off the platform and take a step back”.  Each time I had to move away, I experienced that stick of flesh on a flat surface (sort of like in the summer when you sit on a leather chair with shorts on and you need to disengage your thighs from the leather?).  Each time I grunted with the effort of this disengagement (peeling! hoisting! hey! oh!) I just wanted to laugh even more.

Because I had to resist laughing at the tit hoisting et al, I had to let the pressure out by laughing at other things deemed more appropriate for laughing (more appropriate than laughing at a mammogram, that is).  For example, I blurted out the following: “Sorry that my armpits smell!”  HAHAHAHAHAHAHA!  “I followed the directions like they said and didn’t use deodorant, so I’m sure they stink.”  HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!!!

It was overkill.  And I am sure at some point I came across as maniacal about my own jokes and strangely delighted with mammograms.

In any event, the actual procedure was mildly uncomfortable at most (both physically and mentally).  In fact, I wanted to look at the machine and yell, “Is that all you got, BOOB CRUSHER?!!!?”

But, man, if I knew it was going to crack me up as much as it did, I would have had a mammogram ages ago.