It's just a number, really. Or, the muses screw with me a lot.

So, I totally wrote out this whole post and I was going to be all, "P.S. This is my 100th post," which is technically true, if you count the 13 draft posts I have saved - and apparently Blogger does count those. So ... I think this means we can fucking throw down for the 87th post, am I right?!

Are you drinking, yet?

Normally, I don't do the awards thing, but I sacrificed myself to the self-promotion gods for Ed. Sure, I have done them, but they make me feel kind of dirty, like the time I walked into my dorm's computer lounge at 10 a.m. and found one of my buds passed out on the old couch, drenched in his own urine, and then left him there without waking him up or saying anything.

Kind of like that. Only different.

In celebration of the completely non-momentus 87th post, I'm going to self-promote and then I might steal material/copy off someone/plagiarize. Copyright, schmopyright. We'll see what happens.

Midwestern Momma Holly gave me a "versatile blogger" award, but I'm pretty sure she was smoking something when she gave it to me. Because, this blog? Not versatile.

Crass? Yes. Bendy? Sure. Versatile? We stick to poop and vaginas here, people. And if you don't like it? Well, poop on you, Vaginaface.

Anyway, she also made me this, which is awesome and totally appropriate after the last post:

*Sigh* I'm going to marry that girl. She even remembered to give me camel-toe.

Moving on from self-promotion that makes me feel kind of dirty in the bad way, I'd like to promote Steam Me Up, Kid, and if you don't read her already, go catch up right now or I will murder you with my melon baller (yes, I have one and will take a picture one day). Not even kidding a little bit - I'll murder you. It's necessary for you to read her stuff, so you can understand what I am about to write.

Recently, Steamy (who doesn't need promotion from me because she is rightly worshiped all over the WWW for more than just her humor - seriously, Google "one blonde, one Nigerian nurse aid, two snowcones") wrote a lovely little piece (vaguely NSFW if your boss is a jerk about art and penis pancakes) in which she explored the history of cock-and-balls art. She used a little doodle I sent her and then made me out to be some sort of dick fiend.

I knew revenge would be necessary, but I just can't find that perfect method, you know?

I thought about sending the ball squarely back to her court by one-upping her chimp post with the funniest chimpanzee story in history.

But, I'm not going to do that for several reasons:

1. It's lame when a blogger sees another blogger's post about a subject and is all like, "OMG!!! That reminds me of my story! I'm totes going to post my awesome story about the same subject on the very same day, and we'll be like blog twins, and we can talk on the phone, and take whacky photo-booth pictures together, and then maybe we'll get some ice cream, and later maybe she will spray some of her pee into my mouth. That would be so awesomeeeeeee!!"

2. It's not really my story.

3. The owner of the story was serving the greater good when the incident occurred, and by "when the incident occurred," I mean, "when my friend who we will call 'Schmill' got a 'schmexually shransmitted shmisease' from a 'shrimpanzee.'" While the story is completely true, he was doing good in the world, and my contribution to the world is a poorly designed blog mostly containing potty humor and stick-figure doodles. So, I'm going to take the high road. (Hahaha! I kill me sometimes.)

4. Another reason I'm not going to tell you this story is that, while I apparently am quite used to public humiliation, sometimes I forget that other people don't like it much. And, I might have already one time casually closed the door to the costume shop in our college theater, locking Schmill on the outside and his clothes on the inside.

I mean, he wasn't naked or anything. I'm not that stupid. It's just that he was wearing a long brown-and-orange dress that kind of looks the pattern of that old velour sofa your granny had in her club basement and you later had in your first apartment until your girlfriend said she wouldn't sleep with you unless you got a real couch and also a diamond ring because *hello* she's not waiting around forever.

Oh - and when I locked him out of the costume shop in a brown-and-orange velour dress, it was prime lunch hour, and no one with a key was around to help. In my memory, I thought he had theater keys, but I think maybe my conscience made that part up to make me feel better. I think maybe I was just an asshole who thought it would be funny if my 6'2" friend had to walk inside our college dining hall dressed like a lady to beg keys off of our other asshole friends who would definitely torture him before relinquishing keys.

I can't believe people hang out with me.

5. OK, so really, the real reason I'm not going to tell you about how my friend "Schmill" got violently ill with monkey pox after he hiked through the jungle to a crazy Frenchman's compound/monkey preservation, and then snuggled a motherless baby chimp ...

Or how the baby chimp promptly freaked out and scratched Schmill's arms before calming down and gaining Schmill's confidence with cute little baby chimp huggle-snuggles. Or how the baby chimp then ruined the moment by popping a baby chimp boner and jizzing all over the open wound on Schmill's arm.

Or how, days later, Schmill was nearly dying and doctors couldn't figure out what was wrong with nearly-dying Schmill until a concerned friend googled the fuck out of his symptoms and then asked him in the sweetest southern accent, according to my friend, "I really hate to ask you this, Schmill, but have you recently had sexual relations with a primate?"

And then my nearly-dying friend was all, "What in the SICK fuck?! How could you ask me such a - - Oh. Wait ..."

- the reason I'm not going to tell you about all that is because I wouldn't want to one-up Steamy and her monkey stories.

P.S. I'm also not going to tell you what happened when PHubby, at the tender age of 19 thought no idea would be better than bare-ass farting in his sleeping friend's face. I'll let him tell you that story.

P.P.S. Is it just me, or does everyone, like, NEED to know now what a 'shrimpanzee' would look like? Just me? Oh. Well. Here it is anyway. Good day.

Update: Ells wanted to point out to everyone that humans are primates. While technically true, it ruins the question the girl asked him and also makes Ells a smartypants who deserves at least a locker stuffing, if not a swirly.