Uncle Charlie, What’s A Slithumpy?

ADULT! Kids ask the darnedest questions.

A couple weeks ago, I received a call from a five-year-old nephew named Steve. The conversation went something like this....

"Uncle Charlie?"

"Yes, Steve. What's up?'

"I have a question. You're supposed to be an adult. Maybe you can tell me something."

"Like what? Come on. Ask?"

"It's kinda embarrassing."

"I ain't got all day."

"Well, uh, my friend ... a girl. Well, she stayed with me and my family last night."

"Doesn't seem like a problem to me." I laughed.

"This morning, when she went to the bathroom I noticed something. She's missing something, and says it doesn't hurt. That it's really a SLITHUMPY. She says she was born with it. It looks silly to me."

I didn't know what to say. Explaining those things, to my mind, is up to the parents.

"Well, we were talking about it," he continued. "Me even showing her my DICKITYDOO, so she'd see what she's missing, you know?"

"Maybe," I suggested, "she should see a doctor?"

"I think so, too," Steve said. "I called 411 and asked the girl that answered what we should do about her SLITHUMPY. Once the telephone operator stopped laughing, she suggested Tammy call a doctor. I think she said a ginineocologist."

"Did you call a Gin ... ginineocologist?" I asked. "And what did the doctor say?"

"We both looked in the phone books, but couldn't find any of those things, anywheres."

"So what happened?" I asked, muffling my mouth with a handkerchief so he wouldn't hear me giggling.

"I called my friend, Peter. He's twelve and knows a lot of stuff I don't know yet. He laughed and said we should fill it up -- that those things came empty, and needed to be stuffed with STIFFCLOCKS or something like that.

"Anyways, the alarm clock was too big, and her watch hurt -- at least until she took it off her wrist. The other clock is in Daddy and Mama's room and I didn't want to wake them up. One look at the clock in the kitchen, with all its pointy things on top and Tammy said, 'Uh, uh. Don't even think about it.' So I shut up."

I had a hard time keeping from laughing at the tike's problem. My next thought was that my pal, Oscar Rat, should hear the kid. "Here. Call this number,” I told the kid. “He's a rat, but also both a licensed ginineocologist and a practicing smartassologist, which is just what you need." I gave Steve Oscar's number. "If a girl answers, she's the nurse. So don't ask her. Make sure she gets Doctor Oscar for you." I didn't want them to talk to Oscar's wife or niece. Then I hung up, taking a soaked hankie out of my mouth, and laughed my a*s off. I knew Oscar would think of something.

Later, Oscar called me back.

"What you do that for?" he asked. "I was just sitting down to my breakfast pizza."

"Sorry, old buddy. What did you tell them?"

"You owe me a six-pack of Bud. For a consultation fee."

"Yeah, yeah." The line was silent. "Well ... tell me, Oscar. What did you tell those kids?" I asked.

"I gave good advice, Charlie, old buddy," he said. "I told her that it was a valuable thing for a little girl to possess. To be proud she had one and that when she grew up, I told her, she should sell it or sit on it, but never to give it away."

Damn, but sometimes that rat can be so frickin' smart.

***

Damn, that kid, Steve.

His mother dropped him off at my place yesterday. I hate to babysit, unless they're female and over eighteen, that is.

Well, Steve brought up another sensitive subject, asking, "Charlie. How do we get babies?"

Jeez!

"From the pumpkin patch," I told him, trying to write.

"No they don't. My friend, Peter says it's from my DICKITYDOO when I put it inside a girl's SLITHUMPY. Is that right? Peter's twelve, and he should know."

"Sure, and a twelve-year-old knows everything."

"Then how does it work?"

Sighing, I went to the bathroom, bringing out a tube of toothpaste, handing it to Peter.

"Do you brush your teeth?" I ask.

"Uh, huh. Mama makes me."

"Take the cap off," I tell him.

"Okay."

"Now play with the tube," I instruct the brat. "Stroke it and rub it with your fingers. That's what big boys do with their DICKITYDOOs. It makes them get bigger and bigger. Now squeeze the tube."

"Okay. The toothpaste is coming out."

"The same thing happens when big boys play with their DICKITYDOOs."

"Can I brush my teeth with it?" he asks, in all innocence.

Jesus, I think. What have I gotten into? I'll be damned if I get into homosexuality with him. He can ask his boyfriend later … much later.

"Uh ... I don't think your mama would like that."

"Girls can't do that with their SLITHUMPYs, can they?"

"No, they can't. But big girls can play with their boyfriends toothpaste. Big boys like that."

"And toothpaste makes babies?" he asks, eyes wide open in wonder."

"Something like that. See," I tell him, "every month a big girl's SLITHUMPY gets sore. Then, sometimes they put their boyfriend's ... uh.... They spread toothpaste on it to make it feel better."

"And does it make her SLITHUMPY feel better?"

"For a while, depending on how much is in the tube and how they use it. An old or almost empty tube doesn't feel as good."

"I don't understand. How does that make a baby?"

"Well, let's see now.... The toothpaste stays in there for ... nine whole months, blowing up real big ... until.... Well, until a baby pops out."

He shakes his head. "I don't think I really want to do that. It sounds gross."

"Look kid, everything about babies is gross."

"What if I don't want to make a baby?"

"Easy. When your girlfriend plays with your DICKITYDOO, make sure she swallows the toothpaste."

"Okay. Do you ever make a baby?"

Damn, I think, I gotta get off this subject.

"Nope. I have a girlfriend made out of rubber. She doesn't brush her teeth."

In retrospect, I should have called Oscar Rat again. He's better at explaining that stuff than I am.

Charlie - hvysmker