Let’s play a little game. After every question I ask you, you have to say “Rubber Balls and Liquor” Okay, Ready to play? And go…
What did you buy when you went to the store?
What did Tony steal after he left your party?
What did you do to his girlfriend when he left for college?
Ah...you get it? In 3rd grade when I was told this joke, I understood the dirty hilariousness of the “liquor” part, but the “rubber balls” confused me. When hearing this, I remember going home thinking to myself, “girls have balls?” and for three years, not until my family finally possessed cable TV, and me spending many a shadowy night viewing a certain premium channel called Cinemax (to most adolescent boys who were lucky enough to have the channel, it was donned Skinemax) where there were a b-movie naked gal o’ plenty. I then learned that girls didn’t have the dangly parts I knew myself to have, but a rather crude sideways eye with bushy brows eclipsing this meaty-flowery O'Keefe thing. I can’t say that I was relieved—shocked is more like it—to have this critical information revealed to me—in those three years, fantasies of the lunchroom lady I now know were really, really fucked up. Camel doe indeed.
Z. Willis
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