In honor of Hump Day…

Friend: “I’m reading an essay on Britney Spears (don’t you judge me) and I don’t think I’d ever seen the cover to ‘Oops, I Did It Again.’ She’s got a cameltoe about four blocks long.” 

Me: “I’d never seen it, either, but Jesus Christ, I just Googled it. You’re not wrong. Those lips are more prominent than the ones on her face.”

Friend: “I feel I may have done myself a disservice by not delving deeper (heh) into her oeuvre (heh).”

Me: “I can’t believe we’re adults.”

Upon further reflection, I think an underappreciated benchmark of adulthood may be working the word “oeuvre” into a cameltoe joke. That’s craft, right there.

Hump Daaayyyy, indeed

I’d been thinking about asking my friend Mike to be my friend with benefits.

But every time I think about saying his name during sex, I can’t help thinking of that Geico “hump day” commercial — “Mike, Mike, Mike, Mike, Mike!” (And also, ’cause…well, humping.)

I may never fuck anyone named Mike again. If we ever had sex on a Wednesday, I don’t know that I’d be able to stop myself from laughing, or at least panting, “Hump daaayyyyy” during my orgasm. It’d be really tough to keep me focused.