Out this afternoon with friends to whom, because you never know when Child Services might stumble across this blog, I shall refer as Giacomo and Anne-Marie. The rays of the sun having found their way through what's left of the ozone layer over Toronto, Giacomo strolled off to purchase a popsicle whilst Anne-Marie and I cooed over the couple's daughter, Bebe. When he returned, he had certainly purchased a popsicle. Oh, boy, had he ever. It's difficult to describe this popsicle tastefully. Quite a long shaft it was, and hard, and coloured red, white, and blue; and a nub it had, right at the tip of the red part.
Anne-Marie and I looked at the popsicle, and Giacomo looked at the popsicle, and Anne-Marie said, "Oh dear."
"It's a grand old flag," I sang quietly, "it's a phallic old flag, and I'm oddly reminded of Florida..."
Pause.
"It's called a Space Rocket," said Giacomo.
Pause. He nibbled at it uncertainly.
"It might help if it wasn't a creamsicle," I opined.
Pause.
Giacomo offered it to Anne-Marie. "Here," she said, "I'll take that. Men shouldn't handle their own."
Pause.
Giacomo looked dolefully at me. "I didn't know what it would look like when they pulled it out," he explained.
"Um. Still a straight line."
Pause.
"Let's change the subject."
"Dear God, yes."
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