Topanga might possibly be one of my most favorite people ever. I don’t get to see her very often, because she’s frequently saving lives as a nurse, but on the rare occasions that she is able to come out and play with the rest of us, the evening is automatically improved. Why? To put it simply: She has the best stories.
I should warn you that this particular story does involve some moderately inappropriate content, so if you’re under the age of 18, you should probably walk away from your computer and just come back on Friday for something your mother would approve of. Maybe.
Okay, now that I’ve disclaimed…. Let’s get to Topanga’s awesome story.
So, this past weekend was, as many of you know, Mother’s Day weekend. Topanga spent Saturday, however, at a bachelorette party for one of her good friends. Just like any good bachelorette party, there were drinks, dancing, and inappropriate name-tags:
Now, ordinarily this would not be any sort of a problem. I mean, Saturday night you go out, wear a bit of genitalia on your chest, go home, remove said genitalia and Sunday morning you wake up, wish your mother a Happy Mom Day and the genitalia need not even be mentioned.
Unless you’re Topanga. If you’re Topanga, you go out, wear a bit of genitalia on your chest, go home, remove said genitalia and then wake up to find out that you’re allergic to the adhesive that was on the back of the genitalia-shaped name-tag:
Topanga: It’s hard being this classy, you guys. My mother had never been prouder. “Happy Mother’s Day, Mom! There’s a giant penis on my boob.” I mean, the balls were gone by Monday morning, but the shaft was still there… And now [Tuesday] it’s gone. …You can still feel it, though…
And that, ladies and gents, is Topanga. And I love her.
What should I read next? Go to the Book Reviews page and tell me!