Congratulations Fingerbang Johnson!

"Well, let me tell you," you'll say, placing your hand on the head of your youngest cousin, who will squirm out from underneath it almost immediately.  "There are a lot of stories you'll hear about lady's hoo-has."

Your cousins will all lean forward, at rapt attention, awaiting your final word on the subject.

"They're all true."

They'll gasp.  You'll go on to tell them about how sometimes worms get down there and sometimes bad stuff happens to people who look at them for too long and sometimes your hand gets stuck in one, but when you're down there it feels like you're wrapped up in a birthday blanket.

They won't ask what a birthday blanket is, but one of your more intrepid cousins will bring up the question:

"How many vaginas did you actually see?"

You'll snort at him.  "Like, about fifty."

He, and everyone else assembled, will gasp.

The actual answer, of course, is zero.  The actual answer will involve you french kissing a girl named Carey behind the canoe shed four nights in a row and then finally, on the fifth night, when she asked to see your ding-a-ling, you freaking out and running away and taking a long shower, so long that the councilor had to come in and check on you to make sure you were okay.

You were, more or less, but Carey, when you finally processed what had happened, wasn't terribly interested in making out with you anymore and your chances of seeing a vagina had vanished, so you had two options: you could give up your nickname, or you could make up a series of lies so fantastic your young cousins would be unable to do anything but believe them.

You went with option two.

Congratulations Fingerbang Johnson!