Not To Be Taken Internally

Folks, how many times have you been in the throes of romantic stickiness and suddenly gotten the unbelievably great idea to stick something unusual up your lover’s hoo-ha?

Well, we’ve all been there. It’s certainly understandable. There’s the naughtiness of it, the playfulness as you both conspire to see what’ll fit, the thrill of the forbidden. And some things around the house just beg to be turned into impromptu sexual aids – candles, wooden spoons, broom handles, garden hoses, Marge Simpson figures – so as long as you wash everything before and afterwards (and possibly during), everything’s cool. But there are many items that should never be introduced into your lover’s body, no matter how much of a good idea it seems at the time and no matter what you’ve been drinking. Just to head off potential injury, here’s a partial list to use as a guide. You may wish to print this out and post it prominently in your bedroom.

Things Not To Insert Into Your Lover’s Hoo-Ha

An avocado. They go in easy, sure, but getting them out is a lot more involved. Also pineapples. Oh, and porcupines.

A small, expanding umbrella.

Highway flares.

Lit highway flares.

A rolled-up copy of Action Comics #1. It depreciates the comic too much, and you lose the crispness of the binding.

A G.I. Joe figure, unless you’ve made absolutely sure his helmet is securely fastened in place, and his kung-fu grip hand is by his side.

Anything that involves liquid nitrogen.

Anything you might need to get back in a hurry, like your car keys, your asthma inhaler, or your DVD remote.

Peloponesian stinging nettles.

Tobasco sauce, unless it’s capped really, really well.

D batteries. It seems like a good idea to cut out the middleman and apply them directly, but avoid it at all costs. After a few months the acid starts leaking out.

Jello, because there’s no point.

Spools of thread. They always get stuck and you try to get them out and you can only grab the end of the thread and you pull and you pull and you get all this fucking thread but the spool stays in there and you feel like a magician producing scarves and she won’t stop laughing at you, the bitch. Then you have to respool the thread.

An electric razor.

A caulking gun, because I can tell you, once it’s in there the urge to squeeze that trigger is overpowering.

The collected works of Alexander Isayevich Solzhenitsyn.

Your entire foot, especially if you’re wearing any sorts of sports shoe.


A garden hose that has one of those spinning watering things on it.

Barbecue utensils.

An old-fashioned bellows, because then we’re back to the irresistable temptation thing again.

Loose frozen peas.

Small furry animals. It’s so pass鮦lt;br />

Model rockets.

One of those Remington power hammers, the ones that use .22 loads to fire nails into concrete, because, well, damn.

Exacto knives.

Exacto blades.

A football.

Fluorescent light bulbs. Use some common sense, people. Wrap them in duct tape first.

Anything that oxidizes vigorously, like phosphorus.

Soft drink cans (it makes the coke all foamy).

Anything your dog is accustomed to fetching.


Anything too slippery to get ahold of again, like a mushy banana dipped in motor oil.

Pocket change.

Anything that the person on the receiving end hasn’t gotten a good look at beforehand. You might get away with it if it’s something you bought at a nice sex shop, but impolite if you just picked it up at AutoZone.

Your car registration and proof of insurance.

Chain saw blades.

Anything that hooks up to a 220v power source.

Italian food. Not really dangerous per se but, in that situation, aesthetically unpleasing like you wouldn’t believe.

Any painting or work of art that costs more than, say, two consecutive paychecks.

Expanding foam insulation.

An alarm clock with an active alarm, because it’s really fucking annoying when it goes off and you can’t do anything about it and you start throwing yourself down on things trying to hit the snooze button and the other people in the jury won’t stop staring at you.

Following these simple rules can help save millions of lives, or at least make the emergency room a much more boring place, and isn’t that really the goal of every respectable sex manual?

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