American Thighs by Jill Conner Browne Read Free Book Online

published shortly after the electric washing machine was invented. Your appointments will nearly always fall on days when the temperature is above 95 or below 20 and precipitation is likely in any event but convenient parking isnot. Your deteriorating mental state will often cause you to go to your appointment on the wrong day entirely.
    But no matter how inconvenient all this maintenance may admittedly be—it MUST be done and it must be done regularly. It is not necessary to do it without complaint—feel free to bitch and moan and whine all the while—just so long as you DO. IT.
    Queen Robbiechey takes good care of herself and is quite regular with her maintenance. She has a home, home on the range, and I’m not sure about the deer and the antelope, but the YAKS are pretty playful in them parts. I don’t think I have ever before in my life encountered anybody who raises yaks; you?
    Anyway, Robbiechey and Mr. Robbiechey have a bunch of yaks—not sure if that would be a “herd” or a “gaggle” or a “clutch” or what exactly. I don’t know WHY they have all these yaks, I’m sure there is an excellent reason, but whatever it is, it has nothing to do with this story, so fine, they’re yak-herders—moving on. I’m not sure of the actual head count but suffice it to say that they have MANY, and even ONE of them takes up a whole lotta room, all by itself, as you may imagine. They don’t even start OUT little, but I guess when you compare a brand-new one with an old one, the baby seems itty-bitty even though it’s roughly the size of a riding lawn mower.
    So, it seems that a new baby yak got birthed by a crabby or otherwise disturbed yak-mama who would have nothing to do with her newly produced offspring, and thus explains the presence of a baby yak in Robbiechey’s kitchen, not to mention the dark circles under Robbiechey’s pretty eyes—the result of keeping up with the very demanding round-the-clock mealtimes of the gargantuan baby who was named, for reasons known to many in the Queendom, “PrissyMae.”
    Robbiechey and Mr. Robbiechey had taken over motherhood responsibilities from other derelict yak-mamas in the past and they were pretty nonchalant about this one as well—at first. But PrissyMae proved to be a most troublesome tyke—the trouble being mainly because she was of unusual size and strength, even for a yak—and she was MOST insistent on being fed both promptly and copiously throughout the day. If they were the slightest bit sluggish in their delivery or if the bottle seemed to empty too quickly to suit PrissyMae—who does to this very day prefer large and well-filled bottles—they would be harshly reprimanded for their laxity by the repeated delivery of head-butts to their frontal regions.
    If you’ve never been head-butted in the groin by a baby yak, well, you just don’t know how motivating it can be, and it didn’t take Robbiechey very long at all to develop a rapid-delivery system of nourishment for the bratty PrissyMae. (It should be noted that Mr. Robbiechey’s frontal parts were far too tender and he was far too slow to adequately protect them from PrissyMae’s relentless onslaughts, so the daunting job fell to Robbiechey alone.)
    This had been going on for several weeks when it cametime for Robbiechey’s Annual Hoo-Hoo Checkup and she dutifully kept her appointment. After her examination, the doctor came back into the room and asked her if there were any problems at home she needed to talk about, needed help with. Robbiechey was stunned—she adores Mr. Robbiechey and he her—no problems at home whatsoever—and this seemed like such an odd time to be asked such a question. She must have looked as stunned as she felt because the doctor looked very sympathetic and, dropping his voice a bit, he softly mentioned “the bruising.”
    â€œOH! THAT!”