My cousin, Milagros Schwartz, called me yesterday.
“Jasmine, the craziest thing happened to me,” she said. “I was having sex with Grythym, and while he was thrusting inside me, all I could think about was a Phineas and Ferb I’d just seen.”
“A what?” I said. “Is that a painting?”
“No, Jasmine,” she said, sounding as if I’d just asked to borrow money. “It’s the show my son watches before he goes to bed. But here’s the crazy part. It turned me on.”
“Milagros, let’s get real,” I said. “If television is stimulating your libido, just move down to Florida and get it over with.”
The truth is, I’ve always had a little crush on Grythym, and even worse, when we were five, my father once called Milagros pretty. I hate her with a passion.
“What do you think about during sex?” Milagros asked.
Even without Grythym and my father’s betrayal, I would still find Milagros distasteful and here’s why. She’s always asking me about my sex life. As my readers know, what goes on in my bedroom, currently under renovation, is nobody’s business. It’s the special little secret I keep and I never, ever talk about it. Why? Because sex is a competition between attractive women. You know what I mean, and if you don’t then go ahead and eat that cheesecake. Get a cat while you’re at it. Because feminism is well and fine, but if you’re not killing it in the bedroom, ladies, then your man will drop you like an underperforming stock. And Jasmine kills it. Every time.
Why did I mention that? What? Anyway, I’m sure that by now you’ve heard the news. It’s true. The police have re-opened the investigation into the entirely accidental death of Myron Xavier Schwartz. It’s distressing to say the least, but luckily I’ve figured out that when you mix Opana with just the right amount of Xanax, it all starts to be very, very good. So for now it’s ok, my sweethearts. You can blow a kiss to Jasmine and I will snatch it, and maybe even touch it to my cheek.
