Last time I visited my parents in Anchorage, I was going through some of the various boxes of “me” stuff scattered around their house. Opening one up, I was amused and surprised to find a stack of notes from high school that I had saved. I don’t know why I saved them, but there they were: page after page of teenage ramblings that I’d tossed into a box instead of into a trash can.
Many of the notes were from Xebeth, since we were dating back then, and so one of the more amusing bits of entertainment on Monday evening was handing her the stack. When Xebeth could distract herself from threatening me with bodily harm for having held on to these, we got a lot of laughs out of flipping through them.
Apparently, pickles were on her mind at one point…
PICKLES! I ♥ PICKLES! Give me a pickle and I’ll love you forever & ever & 2 weeks!
…which confused her adult self more than a little, as she’s not really that fond of pickles, and doesn’t ever remember being that fond of pickles. So it was decided that, since these little tasty snacks are not only obviously phallic, but also can apparently be used as currency for the barter of sexual favors (as implied by the above quote), Xebeth was going to start a new anti-pickle group.
Parents Against Pickles.
PAP.
And, of course, since word must get out about how dangerous these insidious green treats are, a letter-writing smear campaign must begin as soon as possible.
Bingo.
A PAP smear.
I like my friends.
Heh — I warned you that that’d be getting blogged! ;)
And besides…I’ve long resigned myself to ending up in hell. In fact, I think that I’ve got a nice condo overlooking the River Styx all lined up, right next door to all my friends from over the years. It’ll be a party!