New Orleans is THE city for the Pterodactyl, mainly because of the liberal scattering of boobs. Regular boobs, cartoon boobs, enormous voluptuous boobs, painted boobs. Blue boobs. We walked through the French Quarter the other day, and he was agog. He kept tugging on his little sister’s sweater, screeching, “OH MY GOD, LOOK AT THAT ONE!” Then I had to be all, Don’t say God! Say gosh!
“So I guess he’s not gay,” someone said. Because gay men have no interest in boobs, right? Sheesh. Anyway, who cares whether he’s gay? The real current concern is his ongoing affair with Siri. They regularly have a 9-year-old version of phone sex. Goddamn you, Steve Jobs, for giving that robotic chick some semblance of a brain. Conversations like this ensue:
Boy: I love you.
Siri: Aw. That’s sweet.
Boy: Are you naked?
Siri: I thought you loved me for my mind.
Boy: You are a butt.
Siri: I am?
Boy: Sexy booty I love your body.
Siri: I couldn’t find any restaurants called sexy booty I love your body.
Yes, I know this is wildly inappropriate. I know, okay? But it makes everybody laugh like a motherfucker, so I let him do it until he gets all maniacal about it and the Diva calls him an axle because she’s not allowed to say asshole. Then I take my phone away. See? I can crack down like thunder when needed. BOOM sauce.