Punday Night
My friend, Mary, told me about a fellow she met when she was still with her ex-husband, living on the military base in Arizona. This fellow had served in some foreign place, Guam, Brazil, someplace like that, where if one wasn’t very clean and careful, one could pick up some fairly nasty diseases.
Of course, this fellow was not as clean and careful as he should have been, and picked up a nasty infection in the worst of all places — his balls. Being embarrassed, the guy didn’t get the infection taken care of as quickly as he should have, and much grossness and swelling and oozing and stinking resulted, eventually leading to the removal of one of his testicles.
Being a military man, on a military base, there was, of course, much teasing from the other men when word got out that he only had one ball. They harassed him about it endlessly, calling him “One-Balled-Jack”, and making many jokes about it. By the time his enlistment was up, he’d gotten really teste about the whole thing.
I docked Mary fifteen minutes off her time card for telling me that one. She then told me she’d made the whole thing up — it was an utter phallusy.
You folks know I got a new puppy a few months ago. She’s a Rat Terrier. We ended up naming her Jasmine, because my husband wouldn’t go for the first name I thought of. I wanted to name her “Death”. Because then, she’d be the Death of Rats . . . Terrier. (Thank-you, Terry Pratchett.) Of course, I already had Grimshaw, my big Lab/Rottweiler mix. I thought having the Death of Rats Terrier would compliment him quite well, too, because Grim loves his squeaky toys — chews and squeaks them constantly — and if we’d named Jazz “Death”, then we’d have had the Death of Rats Terrier and the Grim Squeaker.
Jazz has turned out to be quite the little brat. She’s a real terror, ripping about the house. She’s a little ninja, sneaking up to attack us when we aren’t looking. She’s a regular terrierist.
You’re welcome.
