C. Scott Publishing Corp.

. A man’s choices are his own

“I played the mother who was dying of tuberculosis. You had your nose in a crossword puzzle the entire time.”

Oh. That play. “I might have missed some of that one. In my defense, I had just found crassword puzzles. Come on…three-letter word for something that goes in dry and hard, but comes out wet and soft? I was busy counting the letters in dick, cock, pecker, and prick a dozen times each before figuring out the answer was gum.”

“You’re such a perv.”

I gave her a chaste kiss. “Where are we going for dinner, Chip?”

Even though I’d worked eighty hours a week the last few years to get where I was, the men who worked thirty were the first ones to blame my success on my magical vagina. Screw them.