Not Beating Around The Bush With Tits

Maybe because the end of the year is nearing, but I am feeling a terrible sense of ennui. It’s one of those blog entries, I know. Ennui ennui ennui. Whine whine whine. Be morose. Morose morose morose. But we can’t be joking around and being happy and facetious all the time, can we. Or can’t we? We can’t. Indeed. And it’s not a terribly good sign when I’m beginning to talk to myself, with confusing tag questions at that, in a corny blog entry no less. It’s not just the need for a better financial well-being, but I’ve been ruminating on some other career options. Things are just not rewarding anymore in any financial or emotional sense. Awww, look at the poor trainee, feeling sorry for himself. Why not try digging coals for a job or something and you wouldn’t feel these pretentious, fleeting feelings of self pity, I ask. Digging coals? Here? Of course, where do you want to do it, in 18th Century America? I’m no longer sure how many personalities are talking. I’m confused. I’m confusing myself. Myselves.

Anyway I’ve overheard Ruthie and Tits talking recently about this very attractive career move—being an apple picker in New Zealand. It would allegedly earn you hundreds of thousands of pesos in a much shorter while. They might be talking about mountains of apples here, but the phrase “hundreds of thousands of pesos” was enough to stop everyone on their tracks. This confused Tits, because it seemed more attractive than the initial prospect of milking cows.

“Apple picker,” Ruthie started. “But is there such a job as a cherry popper?” to which everyone within earshot snickered. Tits then put on a perplexed expression, which always happens to him in these sorts of conversation. “What cherry popper?” he of course asked. Sometimes we wonder if he’s just pulling our leg with this kind of naivete—he is named Tits after all—but no one really bothered to ask.

“Eh di cherry popper! Special Agent Fox Mulder, kindly elucidate,” Ruthie asked.
Now I was comfortably ensconced on the corner bed, reading the wonderful, extremely pleasant Superman: Secret Origins #2 by Geoff Johns featuring Clark Kent’s first meeting with the Legion of Superheroes. I had no time to beat around the bush, sidestep away from the cracks, or baste around with the garlic, so I just said, “First time fucker. To have your cherry popped is to be fucked for the first time.”
“Huh?” Tits said, facial expression getting more unconvincing. “But why cherry? Why pop?”
“It’s the hymen. The hymen is the cherry. To penetrate the hymen is to pop the cherry,” I said quickly, resuming my reading. I sometimes pity my friends whenever I become this profane and graphic, but issue #2 is just so great to waste time on metaphors, simile, onomatopoeia, etc.

More perplexed look.

Mental note: Bring colored crayons and an illustration board next time.



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