Better bedtimes to come, surely
There's a bull penis in my bed and it smells awful. That's my situation.
My friend Mike would say I'm telling you this because I'm from a small town - just like the one he's from, but a few miles down the coast of Nova Scotia and minus several thousand people. Since the fishery died, not much happens outside of lobster season, so living there, we learned to self-entertain by perverting the mundane into pseudo-events worth talking about, though worthiness is debatable. Leaving out just the right important details, a skill passed from generation to generation of Maritimer, is something we do if only to force you to say, "What!?", so we can keep talking.
Now I live in Montreal - an overwhelmingly magnificent city with a population literally 10,000 times that of my hometown - where real scandals happen all the time. I could tell you about any of them, but old habits die hard and I just want to prattle on about the crusty old bull penis in my bed. The dog jumped up to chew it there. Arguably once the ultimate symbol of male fertility, it's now a dried up stick of rawhide, and it stinks.
At the pet store yesterday, I was reading its list of ingredients at the cash and got as far as, "All-natural, free-range, organic..." before the clerk cut in to say, "...bull penis. Trust me, you'll want to double-bag that sucker."
Now my dog has penis breath, and for the official record that is everlasting web archives, my bed has seen better days.