Listen, sweetie, could you take off that Darth Vader helmet and help me get this dried eggplant out of my eyeballs? There's something I've been wanting to tell you. You know that goat we've been keeping in the backyard? Well, it's not a goat. It's my Uncle Millie. He's a pretty friendly guy, though his idea of making a well-balanced breakfast is trotting around the kitchen in his underwear yelling, "Feed the Queen!" until a ladybug lands in his mouth. That's why he's so low-maintenance. After all, there's plenty of critters out there. But maybe now you can understand why I don't feel comfortable giving him a bath. That's just something he'll have to learn on his own.
What I'm trying to say is that I love you. But we might want to hold off on the spatula play for a while. It's not that I don't like my ass being cratered like the moon. But you're a woman and I'm a man. Though we both have our needs, is it really fair for ol' Uncle Millie out there to hear me roar in red-assed ecstasy while I try to sing "Camptown Races" and honk a bike horn? Poor Uncle Millie hasn't had a special someone in his life since Vietnam, when he rescued a little pig named Plasterwhumps from a Vietcong village. After the war they both grew their hair long and moved to San Francisco to start a jug band. Plasterwhumps died in my uncle's arms as the butcher chopped his head off. This was after someone mentioned something about how much bacon Uncle Millie had been hanging around with all these years.