The Boobah is a Syphilitic Freak and Other Diabolical Debacles

If you do not have a small child in your life, you may not know of the Boobah. I, too, was unaware of this violation of God’s law until I happened upon one during a recent jaunt to Toys R Us to buy a gift for a bereaved child at church. As I headed down the aisle toward all things cute and comforting, my eyes fell upon this thing what crept up from the very mouth of hell – The Boobah. My first reaction was to say, out loud, in front of a woman with an infant, “That thing looks like it has syphilis!” Late stage syphilis at that, but the look on the mother’s face seemed to indicate that she disagreed. In fact, she stared at me as if I said the fucking keyword to make her baby’s brain boil inside its mushy little skull. I dismissed her, because 1) infants don’t speak English and 2) I have the right as an American to say “syphilis” in public if I so choose, baby or no baby. Perhaps her baby needs to know about syphilis. If they can talk about herpes treatment on daytime TV, I am sure that syphilis is only a short step behind.

All syphilitics aside, allow me to report to you of a diabolical debacle involving the women’s restroom at my current place o’bidness. After lunch earlier this week, I dropped by my second office for a bit of paperwork. When I went to wash my hands, I noticed that on the counter by the sink were three pairs of satiny women’s undies, size large. One pair was purple, one was beige, and one was chocolate brown. They were sitting in a loose pile by the tray that holds the bathroom freebies, such as hairspray and lotion. Surely someone did not think it a good idea to bring in emergency undies, and likewise, I doubt that someone would knowingly place a pile of dirties on the counter for all to know their intimates. I left the pile, undisturbed, and began a quest to find the perpetrator of this fanny faux-pas. I talked to several other ladies who had noticed the indiscretion, but had no information. As the day wore on, the men on the floor began to look a little nervous as they grew aware of how the women on the floor would giggle and smirk when they made eye contact with one another, without saying a word. The women had a secret, fueled by the Gatorade-like mix of intrigue and disgust. The panties eventually disappeared just as mysteriously as they arrived. No one has yet to unravel this mystery, and probably never will. Can we go back to living normal lives after such an event? Will the specter of the funny foundation garments ever dissipate in the shadows of our consciousness? Who is that masked man? How many licks does it take to get to the Tootsie Roll center of a Tootsie Pop?

837. G’night, ya’ll.