Mr. H turned 33 the other night, and as we were in the car returning from dinner, he asked what I’d gotten for his birthday. This was kind of a joke, because I suck at arranging birthday festivities for him. One year I gave him a free kitten. Another year, I broke up with him just to avoid his birthday. This year, I am still the laziest person on the planet, and we’re perpetually hungover from celebrating our week-long anniversary, so I said “I arranged a bukkake. The new neighbors will be dropping by later.” They happen to be senior citizens. That really stirs the pot.

He said “What’s bukkake, anyway?” After I finished choking and sputtering and howling, I ascertained that he really did not know. So after more kicking and twitching and inability to breathe, I told him.*

“Well!” he said.

So that was his 33rd birthday present. The gift of Knowledge. Inspired by this recent Achewood installment, I started rattling off other vile juvenile terms, and found he was also remiss in his understanding of the terms “donkey punch,” “Cleaveland steamer,” and “the shocker.” He did know about the Dirty Sanchez and the blumpkin, though. I guess the variance is the product of the local public school system. I went to private school, and that’s how I knew all that stuff.

*A fantastic bukkake resource: The Archive of Inadvertent Bukkake.