In grade five my mom was on this health kick and I wasn’t allowed to eat anything with sugar. Absolutely anything. At recess one day I saw this doughnut sitting just on the edge of the garbage can, like baaarely touching it. So, like any sugar starved ten-year-old, I picked it out and ate the damn thing. The nickname Garbage Picker has stayed with me.

When I was twelve we were on a family vacation and we were all packed into our sporty utility vehicle and brothers and I were fighting our infinite fight. Apparently this time it was my fault because my dad pulled the car over, hauled me outside, and spanked me on the side of the highway for all passing cars to see. And not one single call to child welfare. I guess they could tell it was my fault, too.

I was in swimming lessons when I was about fourteen. During one class, I hopped out of the pool to grab a flutter-board and the lifeguard started screaming at me from across the deck that I was bleeding. I looked down and found out via a stream of quite obviously menstrual that I had started my period. Luckily only everyone in the pool noticed.

One time I was camping with some friends but I had just hurt my knee and was on crutches. I was sitting on the ground when this dog came over and started humping my leg messed-up leg. I couldn’t move my leg to shake him off, nor could I reach my crutches so I tried to drag myself away from him, but he had such a firm pelvic grip on me that I just ended up dragging him around behind me on the ground. Clearly, everyone was too busy laughing to stop my canine rape.

I went to the doctor and he asked me to give a urine sample, except I had literally just gone. I just straight up could not go. Unfortunately the East German Nurse From Hell told me, in front of the entire packed waiting room, to go to the fountain and drink until I was ready to pee. So I suck on the fountain until I feel sick, but the liquid is not exiting my body anytime soon. I go back to Helga the Horrible and try to explain quietly that I am a urinary failure. She does not take this well and tells me I cannot leave until I pee, at which point I begin to cry uncontrollably. Realizing that she has a hysterical person on her hands, she changes her tune and lets me and my empty bladder go so long as she notes in my permanent record that I have “difficulty urinating.”

One time I was out drinking with this guy and along the way I ate some dangerous looking street food. We made our way home and started getting down to business. He was going down on me when out of no where I let. One. Rip. We’re talking demolition explosives. Not a fluff, or a squeak, or even a queef, but a full on motherfucking ass-rumbling fart. Based on his position, I’m assuming that the air probably hit him somewhere in the face/neck region. He didn’t call me again. His loss.

~ Brittney Drysdale

More than the question you ask yourself on Sunday morning, this is a vital part of making a That’s What She Said joke. To fully understand who this mysterious ‘she’ is, the first thing you need to know is that she has a big mouth and the stuff she spits out is usually pretty nasty. She’s a bit of a slut, but totally euphemistic (good girls always are). A word of caution though, she is never, ever, Your Momma. That joke went the way of Tupac and Britney Spears’ virginity; probably died in the ‘90’s. Plus, you’ve probably spent more time in your mother’s vaginal canal than any man so you better show some respect.

2. Make it short.

Sometimes you just need to get in and out before the moment ends. For these reasons, I keep a condom on my charm bracelet and use a handy acronym, TWSS (pronounced ‘tw-iss’). This can be particularly useful for online encounters, for example if someone comments on the size of their bloody staff, but you’re too busy pillaging the next World of Warcraft quest to type the whole thing out. Don’t be a TWSS noob, know your abbreviations.

3. Too much is often enough.

Nobody likes a urinary tract infection. The average and short of it is that sometimes people get a little too excited when they first discover the fun of TWSS. It’s normal, it’s natural, and it’s not a big deal. She can’t possibly have said everything, so pace yourself and don’t go for anything too easy. That’s how things end up smelling fishy.
4. Can you do it alone?
While it’s perfectly natural to want to throw in a good TWSS after you yourself say something particularly rousing, it’s a bit like getting a manicure before you jerk off. Don’t get me wrong, it can be fun, but kind of awkward and a little vain. Verbal masturbation should always be kept to a minimum and never done in public.

Is that all there is? Well, no, but I’m going to need a nap and maybe a sandwich before I bang away at it again. Until then, keep at it and in no time you’ll be giving aural pleasure to girls way out of your league.
~ Brittney Drysdale

Being twenty miles away from the nearest form of civilization and no television to be heard of my childhood was marked by excessive boredom. I once collected rocks from the driveway and rubbed them with a dandelion until they turned yellow(ish), then set up my wares on the side of the dirt road to nowhere to sell for a reasonable price. The dust from the two cars that drove by that day turned my rocks back to brown. Another summer I made a two-story fort out of hay bales in the loft of my barn, which is an architectural feat if you know anything about hay bales and torture if you know anything about allergies.

Of course it wasn’t all wild roses and fields of gold. If there are any fellows who are particularly squeamish about their balls you should probably skip this next section because I’ve castrated more cows than I care to count. Rural legend has it that one time the neighbour lady couldn’t reach her knife so she used her teeth to cut through the tendon connecting balls to their owner that you probably didn’t even know you had. While I personally have never eaten a prairie oyster, I have definitely walked into the laundry room to find a big ol’ bucket of testes soaking in the sink. Chewy, I hear, but then so was most of Mom’s cooking.

When I was ten or so my brother and I were given a flock of sheep to generate ourselves some spending money via lamb chops and wool. Since they didn’t have the luxury of indoor plumbing in their pen we had to carry five gallon buckets of water everyday after school to those greedy bastards. If that wasn’t bad enough our goat ‘Billy’ was in the same pen and for some reason had a personal vendetta against me. He used to pee on his own beard though, so clearly he wasn’t the brightest in the flock. When he saw me coming he’d lower his head, paw the ground a little for effect, and then charge at me repeatedly with his pointy little horns. When I complained to the boss about unsafe working conditions, Pop handed me the baseball bat and told me ‘Git back to it’. This ain’t little league no more.

One summer I got promoted to work in the fields for the illegally low wage of $5 an hour. I ploughed the fields from sunup to sundown in a tractor with no air conditioning and a radio that only worked at the far end of the field. ‘Course those days doing u-turns in the combine would serve me well when I finally got my very own pickup truck: a 1992 Ford F150, 4×4, extended cab, stick shift, pure gold. She was a purdy off-white colour between the rusty spots, with two gas tanks (nothing gets better mileage than a Ford) and a button on the floor than you had to stomp to turn on the brights. I once parked on a hill and left her in neutral only to watch her roll away, but you just can’t kill quality.

It didn’t take me long to realize that the only way out of that one horse town would be to ride the damn thing. So I took Socks bareback down to where the dirt road met the highway and stood up on her back waving at the traffic. Unfortunately, the circus didn’t drive by that day and sweep me up as expected and when Socks shifted weight I got a butt full of gravel. Since I was too short to climb back on her without a boost my pony and I made the long trek back home side by side. At least the tears kept the dust down.

~Brittney Drysdale

Have you ever looked at your thigh and pictured a luscious Christmas ham? Have you ever ballpark estimated how many people could feast on just one of your delicious legs; tender from lack of exercise, still juicy from that time you ran out of moisturizer and used butter instead? Oh you haven’t? You must be a skinny bitch. You should probably stop reading now. I hear there are a lot of calories in reading.

Have you ever bought pants that were more than a foot too long? Do Capri Pants come down to your ankles? If your inseam has ever been the same length as your waist measurements, you are not alone. When you realized that you were as wide as you were tall, did you think for a second that you might just tip over and roll away? Did you cry a little in the change room? No…me neither.

Have you ever tried to stuff a sleeping bag into its convenient yet perpetually undersized carrying case? Picture that, only it’s my ass and a pair of pants when they’re straight from the dryer and haven’t been stretched out yet. And sitting on my butt to squish the air out doesn’t make it any smaller. My hips don’t lie: baby’s got back. Oh and the work’s not done once you vacuum pack the last cheek in there. One wrong move and it’ll break through those pants like the collagen bursting out of Dolly Parton’s lips; or the silicone out of her boobs; or wherever the stitches haven’t healed yet from her last trip to the geriatric plastic surgeon.

Have you ever tried to wear a skirt instead? Thought you were really smart, didn’t you? It seemed like such a good idea until you remembered that once they’re done chopping down the rainforest they’re coming straight for your tree trunk thighs. Boy Scouts ain’t got nothing on me: one walk around the block on a hot day and you’ve got a forest fire on your hands. Of course, by hands, I mean the charred remains of my inner thighs. Have your legs ever rubbed together so much that a doctor thought the chaffing was a STD? Did you vice grip him between your legs and smother him until you couldn’t hear the stupid anymore?  I hope so.

But wait, there’s a revolutionary in our midst! Band aid wearing, tail feather shaking, air force ones stomping, tip drilling, and all around mover and shaker in the world of women’s issues…Nelly. You see, Nelly is the visionary behind Apple Bottoms Jeans, perhaps you’ve heard of them? I hear they go nicely with the boots with the fur. According to Nelly, “a woman should not try to fit the clothes; the clothes should fit the woman,” a novel idea indeed. His goal is to “liberate the natural curves of a woman’s body,” a message that is coming not a moment too soon because my top button was about to revolt anyways.

                                                                                                                                                                                                             ~Britney Drysdale