Mad Atoms

Teach your children about sex. Because, if you don’t, not only is there a much higher likelihood of them getting “accidentally” preggers – there’s a pretty good chance they’re going to make an ass of themselves (and you) at some point along the way. I, and the folks, know this from experience. Several, in fact: 

Office Holiday Party, My house, 1993 - My dad was the boss, and he used to think it was a hoot to have me tend bar. There’s nothing funnier than an 8-year-old mixing manhattans. One year, my friend and I upped the ante with a special holiday dance, choreographed to a funny song we’d recorded off of the radio. Three days later, Social Services showed up. My dad had missed the performance, so he had no idea why some chick from accounting called the cops on his ass. Me neither.

School Talent Show, Auburn Middle School, 1997 - Huge Monty Python fans, my best friend and I chose to perform their famed “Crunchy Frog” sketch for the annual school talent show. The sound system in the gym was broken, so I had to yell my first line:

"CONSTABLE CLITORIS AND I ARE FROM THE HYGIENE SQUAD AND WE’D LIKE TO HAVE A WORD WITH YOU ABOUT YOUR BOX OF CHOCOLATED ENTITLEES THE “WHIZZO QUALITY ASSORTMENT!"

The first time around, nothing happened, but the second time I whipped the ol’ Clit out, I was slide tackled by our rather bulky art teacher. Which, regardless of the obvious legal ramifications, I think was pretty ridiculous. It’s not like any of us knew what a clitoris was.

Camp Sunshine, Rural Kentucky, 2000 - Religious camps are almost as big on crafts as they are on Frisbee Golf, corndogs, and God. On this particular humid summer day, we were making T-shirts. The camp was short on supplies, but I was big on creativity, and I rearranged the letters in the sporty stencil “GO TEAM!” to spell “EAT ME.”

As the glitter puff paint was drying, the youth minister pulled me aside, whispering in hushed, angry tones. He snatched my shirt and shook it in the air.

“What’s wrong?” I ventured.

“You know what’s wrong.”

“Ummm… it’s funny, right? Eat me?”

“SHHHHI!!! You can’t wear a shirt that says that!”

“Why not?”

“You know.”

“I don’t.”

“Jesus knows, Michelle.”

My eyes went wide. “Is it in the bible?” 

He snatched my Holy Book away (yes, I had it on me at all times), and called my mother to have her explain the intricacies of fellacio slang. She must not have done the greatest of jobs (no pun intended), because I now own a shirt that says, simply, “EAT MEAT.” Which, as an omnivore, I do. But I don’t swallow. Calories.