Aaaaarrrrrggghhhhhh. Don’t even mention Thin Mints. I was a Girl Scout, many moons ago when cookies were $.50 per box. Now they are $4.50 per box for what, 12 cookies? Anyway, my British grandmother, who had a proclivity for “biscuits”, wanted her precious granddaughter to win the cookie challenge every year, so she would purchase enough Thin Mints (ONLY Thin Mints) to propel me to the head of the troop.

Every time I would visit my grandparents, she offered them. “Would you like a snack dear?”

“Um, yes, please. Can I have an apple, or spinach, or liver?” I queried.

“Oh honey, how about some cookies and milk?” And I couldn’t say no–I wouldn’t want to hurt her feelings.

So it began. Every “cookie time” (there were two selling seasons per year) I would try not to say anything to grandma until she would phone and say, “Honey, I saw Girl Scouts selling cookies at the grocery store today. Is your troop selling them yet?” Gulp. “I’ll take 142 boxes of Thin Mints.”

I even wrote to the Girl Scouts of America, begging them to stop selling Thin Mints. Anything but Thin Mints, I pleaded. They would then tell me how successful Thin Mint sales were over the years, and I just wanted to scream, “Yes, because my grandma buys them ALL!!” My pleading and tears and juvenile diabetes did nothing to sway them. To this day, Thin Mints are still the most popular Girl Scout cookie, and, to this day, I shudder when it’s “cookie time.”

Four years later, after being a Brownie and Junior, I retired from scouting. And what was my pension? Thin Mints for the next 16 years because, did you know, if you freeze them they last FOREVER!

*Previously written but adapted for this challenge.

She pulls her pants down next to the tiered concrete fountain, onto the carpet-like verdant lawn, in front of the three-story classic mansion. Its double doors split open around a middle-aged man in a silk robe, his greying cloaked in luxury, sloshing a mug reading, “World’s Best Boss.”

“What the hell are you doing?” He steps one, two wool-lined slippers down onto the first stair of his southern-styled front porch, a droplet of his caffé americano staining the red kassandra brick. She squats, she looks at him, and she shits.

“Who are you?” demands World’s Best Boss.

She glances coolly at a letter in her hand, still squatting.

“A victim of corporate downsizing and departmental outsourcing,” she recites.

To put it eloquently, Burt was a connoisseur of coitus. To put it bluntly (and more accurately), Burt was a perv fuck. His face was buried in a saucy little publication, a magazine devoted to anonymous love making between public restroom partitions. Therein he found an application to partake in such fleshy encounters. The women pictured were of superior gene pools, only the finest for subscribers of "Glory Hole Gushers".

Three items were required: 1) A copy of a government-issued ID, 2) Laboratory test results confirming venereal disease-free blood, and 3) A photograph of the applicant's reproductive organ.

An expired driver's license and forged lab results (Burt had previously tested positive for gonorrhea, syphilis, and hepatitis A-C) completed 66.67 percent of the task, so close to 69. Before the big photoshoot, Burt glammed up his gonads like a '40s Hollywood movie starlet, primping his pubes and powdering away all unsightly blemishes.

The good news came two weeks later: Burt was in. He arrived at the given address - some nondescript edifice - at the given time. A suit with a ponytail so greasy it was practically dripping led Burt to the sex space. "Have at it, boss," he said.

Burt unsheathed his bacteria-gorged snake and deposited it through the hole in the wall.

A voice from the other side squeaked, "Not so fast, mister." The voice belonged to a leather-plastered woman clutching a giant black dildo slathered in vaseline. "You're coming in backwards. I'm going to need you to turn around." 

Shala

My little brother

He loves gifts and

Also good sweets &

Treats

Shala

My little brother

Always finds a way

To get a new gift or

New toy every single

Year

Shala

My little brother

Loves playing out-

Side with Peter &

Norman his little

Buddies

Shala

My little brother

He thinks that he

Knows fashion and

What goes with what

& what does not

Shala

My little brother

Acts a lot like a

Tiny young boss

Tells his buddies

What to do and

Also where to go

Shala

My little brother

Loves reading the

Chuck Norris and

Short funny jokes

And stories to all

I remember the day as if it were last week. But, it was over 40 years ago so I am long since over the humiliation and can tell about it. As a sophomore in high school, it was imperative that I look great. After all, how else would one get noticed by the opposite sex.? This was one goal that I could excel in. I knew I was fairly cute and that I was also, hmm should I say...well endowed? So, back to the particular day while in Biology class.Our teacher Mr. Clancy had gone off topic again, but this time I was interested. He said way back in the day most women would pinch their cheeks and bite their lips to have a natural glow of rosiness about them. So for the rest of class, I silently sat pinching my cheeks and biting my lips. As class let out I hurried to the girl's bathroom. I was sure I looked awesome. So many stared after me, all I could do was smile back. Especially at the boys! Rushing to the mirror- I stared dumbfounded at the huge bruises on my cheeks and lips. Think I overdid it?

Bicycling, in the heat, far beyond our limits, we stopped at the shop to beg a ride home. 

"Take my truck," offered Bill. "Just don't forget to pick me up, later."

Taking the keys, I glanced at May; she winked. We loaded our bicycles. We had Bill's truck! the ratty, spit-and-string 1/2 ton with peculiar wooden bed, that he loved more than his wife...me.

"Let's go take a quick look at that barn I told you about," May suggested. So I turned north instead of south and headed for Ham's farm. Driving up the dirt road that would take us into a former cow pasture, I spotted my inlaws' car, parked...and breezed right by. Down the rutted track, through what was now a Christmas-tree farm, we pulled up close to the lovely old barn.

Spencer Ham built it, planing, fitting and pegging each beam and board. Seventy years later, it was still square and true...beautiful.

Back in the truck, I turned the key..."whirraaa-a--a--". Again...nothing! I've pushed vehicles; maybe I could get it rolling (backwards) fast enough to jump-start. Tiny May would drive. It rocked enough to roll over a bump and started downhill, while May, gear in reverse, foot on the clutch, waited for the perfect moment. Unfortunately, she hadn't closed the door and it found the huge boulder beside the track.

With a crrrunch-grind-shriek, everything stopped.

Between my inlaws and the land-owners, we chose throwing ourselves on the mercy of the Ham brothers, who bundled us into their pickup to go jump Bill's truck, by an alternate route.

We escaped clean, sort of. Days later Bill said his parents had seen his truck going into the Ham's upper field, but not coming out... very strange...and his truck door was closing funny, did I know anything about that?

NOooooooo!

Grab your partner, swing, now do si do

As a "good" Catholic girl, don't ya know

Curtsy

I fervently chose what pleasure to do without

For 40 days, The Good Book did shout

Curtsy

Good Catholics were supposed to forego

All the things, sins, that made them glow

Curtsy

Pain, suffering, hardship the season's theme

So that, in pain, more like Him we'd seem

Curtsy

One fine day, in my optimistic (sinful) youth

I hit on what might be, for me, the hardest truth

Curtsy

To my sister beside me I shared what made me queasy

"I'm giving up sarcasm...  that should be easy!!"

Curtsy

So, I blew it (sarcasm) before I'd even begun to try

Since then I've left the church, I'm sure you know why!!

So, it's THE BIG GAME Day today, huh? Up until two days ago, I hadn't realized it was that time, already...Actually, I really do love football (I do!), but hadn't really been that into it the past few years (I worked nights for many of the last several years and so, missed it completely. Also, I'm a 49ers fan, so I've been a bit put-out since they lost the big game in '12), so I just had to ask my boyfriend who's playing and who we're going for. He just said we're rooting for the Falcons...Funny, I was thinking Mr. Clean would have the best commercial!

Thank you for the box of treats,

Chocolate is my vice.

I read the pretty card with lace,

it was so very nice.

The flowers sent, smell devine,

roses, I adore.

What’s in that little velvet box?

I can’t believe there’s more!

You’ve spoiled me with all these gifts,

just for Valentines!

But wait, half the candy has been eaten,

the card contains no rhymes?

This bouquet is from the cemetery?

it used to be a wreath!

And this isn’t a real diamond ring,

you’re a liar and a thief!

I should have stayed with your brother,

he didn’t have your good looks,

but at least the friends he kept,

weren’t Morticians, pigs or crooks.

One day a guy walked up to me and started a conversations. Well, it went like this.

"Are you an Angel because you look divine." He said.

"Are you from hell? I don't date demons."

"Is your name Wi-Fi? Because I feel a connection."

"Have you been working in a cheddar factory? Because I smell something cheesy in here."

"Is it hot in here or just you?"

"Why don't you take a shot? Oh wait, it'll just cause your head to steam more."

"Have you been playing darts? 'Cause you're a bulls-eye."

"When did you last bathe? 'Cause you're lines smell almost as bad as you."

I soon got tired of him and walked away. He tried to follow me but I stopped next to my man. The flirter gawked as he saw my man. 6 foot 9 and all muscle. He glared at the guy who dared tried to pick me up as I told him what happened. As I talked, the other guy ran back to the bar.