Human Root Cellar?

WARNING: FUNNY BUT SICK HUMOR AHEAD

Ok.

I admit it.

I have never had the urge to mate with a fruit. Or a vegetable. Or sausage.

Or really any food stuff in general

Odd topic for a blog you say?

Definitely.

Do you, CV, spend a lot of time thinking about vegeatility? (It's supposed to be a play on beastiality but it's two am here in CO and I'm not about to pull out Roget and find a cleaver new word for vegetable. Is there one?)

Actually, dear reader, I do not. But I was recently listening to Howard Stern on my SIRIUS satellite radio. (The BEST investment I ever made, by the way.) When his ever-annoying sidekick Robin Ophelia Quivers announced that when she was younger she was (and I quote) "Like a rabbid dog" with lust that she would raid the refrigerator--IN HER PARENT'S HOUSE- bto look for suitable items to pleasure herself with.

NASTY ASS!!

She then proceed to lead a detailed discussion about the process of finding just the right 'material.' A cucumber was too 'girthy' and a carrot wasn't 'girthy' enough. She then moved to the freezer. A hot dog, which needed to be defrosted, wasn't the right size so she moves on to the sausage. Finally a match.

As I listened in my car, parked outside my apartment building as neighbors peeked out their windows, I could feel my jaw drop as the story unfolded. It was one of those things where I don't want to listen but I couldn't turn ot off.

She told the story, it was in a weird second person way. She kept on saying 'You look in the fridge to see what might work' or 'You decide that hot dog doesn't work.' And all I could think about is 'Don't lay your shit at my feet, bitch.'

In my head I imagined a young, blonde Robin rifling through her parents' refridgerator like some sort of perverted Goldilocks.

A cucumber? Too big, she decided.

A frozen hot dog? Too small, she decided, her vaginal lips starting to turn that purpley-blue tint that us Black folks get when we get hold.

A Polska Kielbasa? Just right, she moaned in ecstasy.

Sick.

So, a few days later, I decide to tell my mom and dad about this phenomena. To my horror, neither of my parents were surprised.

'Girls do that all the time," my mother says, my father shaking his head in emphatic agreement.

I'm thinking what nasty hos do my parents be hanging out with.

'You'd be surprised,' my father chimes in.

Hell, yes, I'd be surprised. Never once in my like have I considered sticking meat into my cooch. (No jokes please)

Or any vegetable for that matter.

So, I get to thinking. This must be a generational gap. I mean, I grew up in an age of dildoes and vibrators. They had the potential to be easily accessible. I even got one from my oh-so-generous-sex-shop-employee cousin for my eighteenth birthday.

Then I started to feel a little sad for all of those poor women who came into their sexuality at a time when it was still a dirty thing. Who reduced themselves to fucking bananas. Who quivered in ecstacy at the sight of a cucumber. Who's only way of releasing all of their pent-up frustration was to stick a sausage in their womanhood.

But then I thought, 'You had your hands and fingers, you nasty bitches. They were invented like 10 million years ago. Use them.'

I am proud to say that I have never desired to be a human root cellar.

I have never placed groceries in my poon.

God Bless America!

Ciao

P.S. I can tell you this though, I now look at my parents' friends in a whole new light. Mrs. Walters definitely has the look of a woman who's molested a pickle. Or a prune. At least if the saying 'You are what you eat' also refers to your nether lips as well.