Health Department Inspector and the Dildo Dilemna

I often send my friend, an inspector for the health department, stories highlighting my penchant for using up out-dated food from my storage room. She writes back telling me how she and her colleagues laugh at the lengths I’ll go to avoid waste.

So, yesterday, when I invited my friend to have lunch at my house, she seemed hesitant.

“I’ll treat you to lunch at a restaurant.” She offered.

“Save your money. I can make salads and top it with turkey instead of grilled chicken. You don’t mind leftover turkey do you?”

“I don’t want to inconvenience you. Let’s go out.”

“It’s no bother. Salads are simple to make. Don’t worry, I won’t use anything out-dated from my storage room.”

“Okay.” She relinquished.

As promised, I made a nice salad with fresh romaine lettuce, spinach, diced apples, and candied walnuts.

While we ate conversation turned to an assortment of topics, one, of which, led me to reveal my latest solution to a dildo problem. It was too long…too painful to use. “So I cut off part of it.” I explained.

“Really?!” She gasped.

“How much did you cut off?”

“About a third of it.” I said holding up my fingers to give her a visual of the two plus inches that had been removed.”

“Which end did you cut?”

“The base,” I answered, “…didn’t want to mess with the smooth tip.”

“Smart decision. But if you removed the width of the base, how do you keep it from slipping out of the strap on?”

“Safety pins.” I announced with problem solving pride. “I experimented with other solutions but safety pins won out in the end. Silicone didn’t melt well with a cigarette lighter so I couldn’t cut out the middle and reattach the end piece. Thread cut through the silicone when I tried to sew it. It’s in the other room. Here, I’ll just show it to you.”

I stepped toward the bedroom to retrieve it and emerged moments later holding a bright red dildo hanging from a black strap on.

She examined it and said, “That’s perfect. But what did you use to cut through the silicone?”

Pointing to the knife on the kitchen counter, I said, “The same knife I just used to make your salad.”

Color drained from her face.

“But I WASHED it first!” I defended myself. “I swear it was clean.”

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