You pee out of your butt!

Berlyn and I were out, she was on her bike and I was riding a skateboard.

That’s right.

A skateboard.

Whatever, I’m cool. Let’s not make a big deal out of it.

Anyways, we saw these boys and they started talking to us.

If you know me, you’d know that I don’t really enjoy kids, but these boys were kinda adorable, and they were 5-years old, so I made a special exception.

We did the usual chit chat about soccer, and baseball and how being five is way cool, but six is slightly better.

And then Kid A said, “you’re like 30 aren’t you?”

To which I replied, “Phhsh, 30? Are you serious? Don’t I look 24?

Kid B: No, you look like you’re 40!!

Me: 40?! I look 40? Dangit, I really should be spending less time outdoors.

Kid A: No, you look like you’re zero.

Me: Thanks…?

I think that was his very special way of giving me a complement. I don’t expect 5-year olds to understand the complicated psyche of a woman. Hell, I don’t understand myself most of the time.

Then we started talking about skateboards and how totally crappy I am riding one, and then Kid A said, “you have wheels on your butt!”

Me: Really? On my butt? Where?!

Kid A: You have wheels on your eyes!!

Me: Oh, I get it, you’re being weird. I’ll play along. Oooh, I have wheels on my eyes. Look at me, I can skate on my eyeballs.

And then I did this awesome pantomime thing like I was doing sweet Tony Hawk tricks on my eyeballs, and it looked like a cross between ice dancer-princess and like an angel was inhabiting my body for a brief second. I felt like I was floating on a cloud made of ethereal dust, but it was totally lost on them.

Doesn’t anyone appreciate preforming arts anymore??

Kid A: Dude, your boobs stick out. They stick out like this. (Making finger guns and sticking them on his chest) Nee Naw!! (that was his sound effect for my boobs…I find it fitting)

Me: Yup. I have boobs. Anyways, look a rock. You’re a kid, you like rocks, right?

(I was trying to divert this tragically awkward conversation)

Kid A: You have boobs and a WIENER!! You have a wiener that shoots boobs.

Me: Alright, You crossed a line, kid. Come on Berlyn we got to go.

(Thankfully she was out of earshot for the entire conversation)

Kid A: You have a wiener on your butt!! And you pee out of your butt too!

Me: Nope. I do not have a wiener on my butt. Don’t you understand basic anatomy? And people don’t pee out of their butt, they pee out of their urethra, so there!

ZING!

No?

Not really a zing, huh?

What was I supposed to do? Reprimand him? I didn’t know where his mom was. I kept asking, and he said she was inside their house.

I had to refrain from coming back with nasty comebacks, because, Hello? I’m an adult, and apparently I look 40, so I had to act appropriatly.

So, it’s conversations like this that remind me why I don’t really like kids.

Maybe if I hired real massage therapists, and not Panda Express employees, I wouldn’t keep having these experiences.

So it turns out that I’m a celebrity.

Or, wait, my mom’s a celebrity, so that makes me a celebrity by proxy.

Why?

Because we had massages in her living room with her private masseur.

How bourgeoisie is that?

But because we ate left over Costco pizza, I think all the fancy was negated.

So, here’s the weird thing:

she massaged my ARM PITS.

She got right in there, and starting working my prickly and deodorant covered arm pits, like she was kneading some dough.

I didn’t know whether to smack her in the part that her lotion fanny pack covered, or start hysterically gyrating around like a wet noodle.

I did not like it.

Who massages in the arm pit?

Especially the arm pit of a lactating mother.

There are milk ducts in my arm pit.

We could have had a situation.

Although…

If she brought some cookies, we could have turned that situation into a par-tay.

Speaking of weird massages…

I’ve also been massaged in my mouth.

Yeah, the masseuse took her gloved finger and shoved it into my mouth and massaged my jaw.

I was like, “Kuld, juew not do that Pulese?”

Oh, and in Paris, I was massaged in between my boobs.

As in, she flipped the covers down, and massaged right in between my bare-naked ta-tas.

I didn’t mind that one so much.

It was like, hey, I’m in Europe, this is normal, right?

Plus I was on my honeymoon and I was just used to being naked and fondled.
WHAT!? did I just say that?

Yes, yes, I did.

Anyone out there have any weird massage stories? Or naked stories. Or fondling stories? Or fanny pack stories?

Please share, because sharing is fun.

I have arguments with my own brain.

Every night before I go to bed I think of an amazing blog post and this is what happens with my brain.

One side of my brain: Tomorrow I should write about beefsteak tomatoes, and BEES! And Nacho cheese sauce! Ohh, this might just be the best Hippo Brigade post the Internets have ever seen.

Other side of my brain: You should write that down, you’re gonna forget it.

No, how could I possibly forget about bees and cheese sauce?! It’s the best post EVAH!!

Write it down.

No, leave me alone, I’m sleepy

Just jot it down

No, suck it, brain. I’m going to sleep.

Then my subconscious takes over and it’s all marshmallows, zombies, and sexcapades with Alton Brown.

There’s just something incredible sexy about a man who knows how to pickle stuff and ground his own beef. The guy knows everything about food. What’s hotter than that? You know I’m right ladies.

And the second I wake up, and wipe the crystallized drool from my chin, I think…wait, wasn’t there a post I thought of before I fell asleep?

But it’s gone.

Like dinosaurs and pudding pops.

I’m a thief.

I steal stuff.

And by stuff I mean a lemon.

I’m so close to getting a vintage roadster as my get-a-way car, and a Nixon mask to hide my identity.

Stealing lemons is serious business.

They’re like 68 cents at the grocery store.

I’m super jumpy because of my new found thievery. I saw a cop driving down my street and I dove into a hedge of rosemary.

I’m allergic to rosemary.

Like I said, serious business.

That’s how I roll.

But honestly, here’s how it went down:

I live in a magical land where there are groves of fruit trees.

On jogs *snort* I mean, walks, I’ll stop and grab a ripe lemon or orange.

This is totally acceptable.

Or it damn well should be, I pay 200 bucks in association costs. I’ll take whatever I want!

I’ll chop the whole tree down and drag it home if the mood strikes. And you better get outta my way.

This is not stealing.

But lately I’ve been using a lot of lemons in my cooking, and I’ll just send Pat out (because he’s super tall and grabby) and have him fetch me a ripe lemon or two for my salmon, or pink lemonade cocktail, or to throw at mountain lions, whateves.

So here’s the grey area:

There hasn’t been any ripe fruit on the trees, so I pointed out an adorable little tree in front of someone’s house.

We walked past the house and I was all, “Look, it’s outside of thier fence. Totally fair game. Take the fruit!!  TAKE IT!! I’ll stand watch.”

So we took a beautifully ripe, and succulent lemon.

A few days later, I noticed the owner of the house was fertilizing the plants and the lemon tree outside of her house.

I struck up a little convo about the weather.

I segwaued into salmon.

Then causally mentioned lemons…

Beautifully succulent lemons, hanging from her tree.

Turns out, they’re her lemons.

Turns out she doesn’t appreciate people stealing them.

Turns out I owe her 68 cents.

But I’m an outlaw now.

I scoff in the face of 68 cents.

Watch out.

I might steal your shit next.

The Take Over

Hey everyone,

It’s Pat. Beckey’s husband.

I’ve decided to post for Beckey today because she’s all snotty and sick, and honestly she’d probably never notice that I’d taken over.

We’re not really the prankster types, but it is April Fools’ today, and the thought of putting something up here on Hippo Brigade seemed like the right thing to do.

Especially since I am in posession of the most rare and stunning collection of Beckey photos that have ever existed. Take a look:

swimmer much? nope. these are for cutting onions.

beckey's super-good at party expressions

we went snorkeling once. beckey tried to wrestle a sea turtle. the turtle won/fled.

why is this monument copping a feel on my pregnant wife?

her eyesight isn't that bad, she just likes wearing things on her face.

she'd kill for a frozen banana

and loves beef jerky

i mean LOVES beef jerky.

funny party expression, numero dos

actually, she'll do just about anything for the camera

So there you have it. Just a little view into the real-life Beckey.

Cheers.