Tell Me I'm Not the Only One Who's Thought of This

Honestly, I don't know what is wrong with me. I mean, if you saw me on the street you'd think I was a nice, normal girlwomanladyperson who is probably thinking about where to find a nice lemonade pitcher, you know, a glass one? One with a nice round shape that won't slop the lemonade when stirred? Because I am: a nice, normal girlwomanladyperson thinking about lemonade pitchers. And cookie jars. I swear to fucking god I need a cookie jar, one with an airtight seal. In the shape of an owl maybe. Or a fruit. I'd like a cookie jar shaped like a fruit.

Despite all this--the fact that I am most definitely a nice, normal girlwomanladyperson who thinks of lemonade pitchers and cookie jars--despite all this I cannot seem to write a post that does not rely on scatalogical humor. Me who never farts. (True story: never.) Because the other night as I lay me down to sleep, (my soul to keep and do you think Anthro might have a cute cookie jar?) in crept a thought about farts. And penises. James Lipton, although I swear I never ever not once thought of James Lipton's penis (although you are. Right now. You sick bitch.). No, I was thinking about Inside the Actor's Studio and how James Lipton always asks the celebrity their favorite swear word. How inevitably the audience gasps and twitters like schoolgirls when Sean Penn or Danny Devito or whoever says fuck. Or cocksucker. And how much I hate that James Lipton acts so pleased with the answer. Like what the fuck else does he expect the celebrity to say? Fudge muffins? And then because it was past my bedtime and I could not sleep (I pray the Lord my soul to keep) I thought about what I would say if James Lipton ever asked me for my favorite swear word. Buttfart. It must have been 1am and I think I would say buttfart. Gasp, twitter, hee hee, does anyone know if they even make cookie jars in the shape of a citrus? Although that really begs the question: what other kind of fart is there? Nice, normal girlwomanladyperson. God, please don't think it, please don't say it, please God, how I do hate the word queef. What a terrible terrible blow to humanity that the word even exists. Alas, here is where it gets dicey: and then I thought how truly blessed we are as a species that men cannot fart out of their penises. Because you know if they could, they would. All the freaking time, tooting their own horns, hands down their pants, on the remote, cue ball in the corner pocket. They would embrace the ability, marrying together, as it does, their love of farting and their own dicks. And then I finally fell asleep secure in the knowledge that men cannot fart out of their penis holes, Amen.

Then this morning: this. Nice, normal girlwomanladyperson, so help me I think this shirt is so funny and I kind of want it in a nice, normal girlwomanladyperson way. I'd pair it with a cute pair of jeans?

Seeing as how nice and normal I am, I am left to wonder: why do I not yet have a job? Or at the very least, a lemonade pitcher that does not slop?