in which my sister and i discuss a penis

The trouble with this country is that some of the people who live in it are ex-boyfriends of mine. Conversations such as the following may ensue.

“You should call her brother.”

“I’m not going to call her brother.”

“Why not?”

“What if he answers the phone?”

“What if he does? You could talk to him.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I can’t talk to him.”

“Why not?”

“Because I touched his penis.”

“That does make it awkward.”

“That does make it impossible.”

“It was a long time ago!”

“Not long enough!”

“Fine, but how else are you going to get hold of her?”

“Can we avoid using the phrase ‘get hold of’?”

“You’re the one who brought up penises.”

“Can we not talk about bringing up penises?”

“I can see this is hard for you.”

“We should also avoid the word ‘hard.'”

“This is bringing up some issues. There’s a lot of stuff coming out.”

“Yes, that’s right, it’s coming from deep inside.”

“You never know when it’s going to sort of, spurt forth.”

“This is my point!”

By this time we are both laughing so hard that, at least in my case, my back ribs are aching and it is difficult to breathe.

“You are corrupting innocent children here,” my sister accuses me.

“I think we’ve all learned a valuable lesson,” I say. “Never touch anyone’s penis.”

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