My Balls and My Word, and I Have Both Still
Mr. Peanut Goes To War
I don’t know about you, but unless it’s my significant other, I don’t want to get felt up and out, irrespective of whether or not the person’s another woman or has on the thickest gloves possible. The pat downs I used to get in the club are intrusive enough; I can only imagine the thorough job our federal government does to ensure that I don’t have a plastic knife, hand-sanitizing gel, or the ingredients for a Molotov cocktail. And other than my clothing, my iPod, my books, my magazines, my cell phone, some gifts, and some toiletries that’ll make it on
