Congratulations on Fitting the Maximum Number of Oranges Up Your Own Ass!

“That’s thirty,” she’ll murmur.

“Yeah.  Feels right.”

You’ll quietly weep for a few minutes, then smile.  You’ll really need to poop, then you’ll start ejecting oranges out of your poop chute.

“AHHHHH!” you’ll scream together.

And thus orange-poop-juice will become a thing in our society.

Congratulations on Fitting the Maximum Number of Oranges Up Your Own Ass!

Congratulations on Removing the Tip!

You have a bad habit of talking about family during sex.

A lot of people have hang-ups, sure. Craig, over in Accounts Receivable, can’t get an erection without being punched by a girl with punk rock hair right in the balls. And Carey in HR can only sleep with a black man if he’s dressed like a mugger.

None of us really like Carey, on a related note.

Anyhow, the point is that everyone’s got a weird thing they do during sex. Anyone who claims they don’t is lying. The key is to find someone whose wacky fetish matches up with yours.

Your first girlfriend, Shelly, liked being slapped. Not in the face, but in general. It had to do with power dynamics and some absentee father issues left over from her childhood.

Casey liked to roleplay. She’d bring her d20 to bed, even when you told her you’d prefer a diceless system. It wasn’t the fetish in that case, so much as the fact that she seemed to be ignoring your needs. You were totally game for Mage or something, but she just wouldn't listen.

Margot, worst of all, just refused to have sex with you unless you wore a condom. That was a huge drag. You never got far with her.

After these misadventures of the heart you all but gave up on love. Until you met Sarah.

You felt an instant connection to her. The two of you seemed to have visited a lot of the same places and seen a lot of the same sights. You had the same views on politics, marriage, and, best of all, you both liked engaging in conversation during sex.

That was as far as the discussion got before the two of you decided to finish your coffee and hit up a motel to keep talking doing something more...interesting.

You started to exchange stories about yourselves while receiving head from one another. The topics grew steadily more intimate, shifting from pet peeves to old flames to opinions about jurisprudence until the conversation came to rest on family.

As you stuck the tip of your dick inside of her she said, “You remind me of my uncle, John.”

You laughed lightly. “That’s funny. My dad’s name is John.”

She’ll laugh back and kiss you. “That is funny. Ready?”

You’ll nod. “What’s really strange is that you look a lot like my aunt Karen.”

She’ll suddenly freeze. Her hands will press you back, not enough to force you out of her but enough to let you know you shouldn’t start thrusting.

“My mom’s name is Karen,” she’ll say, her face starting to turn bright red.

“Oh,” you’ll say, the cogs in your brain beginning to turn. “Oh shit.”

You’ll pull out, shake hands, and agree to never speak of this again. Then you’ll share a deep passionate kiss before leaving the motel in separate cars.

Congratulations on removing the tip. Thank god it didn’t go any farther than that, right? Oh, and the two of you will fuck for real in like two weeks. It’ll be tops.

Congratulations on Completing Construction!

It was several days ago when the seeds of Fort Cootiefree were first planted in your head. They came to you after Jessie from down the street rammed her tongue into your ear. You wanted to make a space where no man would ever have to endure such tortures again. And so the fort was born.

Since then you’ve collected couch cushions from half the neighborhood, bedsheets enough to blot out the sun. You’ve even acquired a pair of sedentary, socially outcast fifth graders who can use their superior size to guard the door and didn’t have anything better to do than help you.

And tomorrow you will complete the final phase of construction, hanging the vintage bead curtain your parents lent you as a gesture of good faith over the entrance and ensuring your freedom from the horror that is womankind for at least a month to come.

You will be hailed by other young men in the neighborhood as a hero and young women will stare awkwardly at you across the playground, mystified by your folk hero status and the quiet strength that must permit such an undertaking. Girls will attempt to gain entrance to your new utopia soon, and you need to organize your new republic and brace yourselves for the upcoming violence so that you can stay free.

Get at least three kids who know judo and someone’s dad’s gun and you’ll be okay for the first week. If suicide bombings start (and they probably will) just remember that you don’t want to be remembered as the kid who gave in to terrorism.

This is bigger than the tongue in the ear thing now. This is about remaining men, remaining free. If this fort is still standing at the end of the year it will become a rallying point for second-graders everywhere, a sign that they too can remain cootiefree.

And if it falls, no one will remember it happened come third grade, except that one kid no one likes who doesn’t shower and owns way too many Magic cards.

So congratulations on completing construction. It is a shockingly inventive piece of engineering for a second grader.