Voilà … Weatherboobs!

Tell the weatherman to stick it in a windsock.

“Why?” you ask.

Why not.

“What did he do?”

He can’t forecast the weather for shit—that’s what.

Alas, not to worry.

With apologies to Bob Dylan: You don’t need a weatherman to tell you how the wind blows.

Nipples are way more sensitive than Doppler radar.

So all you need to get your own, completely accurate and up-to-date weather reports, are … boobs.

They can be yours, or someone else’s.

First bare them, then take them outside.

And, voilà … weatherboobs!

From now on, the weather will be easy:

If the boobs are dry … it’s not raining.

You can just smile, wave to the neighbors, and go back inside (if you want).

If the boobs are wet … it’s raining.

Or they’ve begun to perspire. Either way, they’re lovely.

If the boobs cast a shadow … the sun is shining.

Any reddening would also tend to confirm the sun exposure.

If the boobs are swinging … the wind is blowing.

Or they’re enjoying the fresh air so much, they’re dancing.

If the boobs do not cast a shadow and are not wet … it’s cloudy.

But they’re still out cheering everybody up, so no one is gloomy.

If the boobs are bouncing up and down … there is an earthquake.

Or, someone’s jumping on the trampoline again, and those things are going crazy.

If the boobs are covered with ice … there is frost.

Does anyone need glass cut?

If the boobs are not visible … it’s foggy.

Or maybe someone’s hands are on them.

If the boobs are white … it’s snowing.

At least, that’s one thing it could be.

If the boobs are underwater … there is a flood.

Those happen sometimes. And it’s not always a bad thing.

If the boobs are spinning round and round … there is a tornado.

Or someone has returned to the stripper pole.

Can’t say I’m surprised.

And if one is unable … or oddly, disinclined … to subject their tatas to the great outdoors … there’s always weathercock.

It works exactly the same way … you just stick your cock out there.

But keep an eye on him.

You don’t want your rooster wandering off (think of all the poor hens).

Ask any woman … it’s best to keep a pecker on short leash.

-Harlowe Pilgrim

Copyright 2014 Cock and Bull Publishing, LLC

This piece appears in the ebook Harlowe Pilgrim's Oh My Words! 2014.

Harlowe Pilgrim’s books are available at Amazon, iBooks,    Smashwords.com, Books-A-Million, and most other online booksellers.

Follow on Twitter @ https://twitter.com/HarlowePilgrim

Baby it’s Friggin’ Cold Outside

It’s so friggin’ cold outside, I can’t believe it.

I caught a snowman trying to get into my house, so he could warm his snow-ass up. He must have already frozen his snow-balls off, because I didn’t see them anywhere.

I did, however, spot a drunk—a drunk who had pissed in his pants. And why? Clearly … he did it for the body heat! 98.6 degrees of forced hot water whiz-warmth, baby!

I only hope he was close to home when he let his golden river run. My guess is, once that wonderful liquid comfort changes over to britches full of yellow snow, the downside to the pee-for-heat plan becomes awfully apparent.

At least frost bite doesn’t leave teeth marks.

I don’t know about the whole pants-pissing thing, but I have to admit, the cold has had me thinking some thoughts I wouldn’t usually be thinking. Like, “I bet that fat girl’s nice and toasty inside; if I let her sit on my face, I can probably burrow in somewhere.”

Tell the truth, you were thinking it too—even the ladies. Sounds coozey, doesn’t it? A nice warm womb, to snatch a snuggle?

Make sure you don’t suffocate up there; I recommend using a snorkel. Just point it out the way you came.

And it’s so friggin’ cold outside, I’ve witnessed the surprise return of something from the olden days, not seen in these parts for years—the furry muff. Not the kind you stuff your hands in to keep’em warm—I’m talking about the love-land between lady legs kind.

Okay, they’re actually the same kind.

That’s right, the wintertime girls around here have been so cold, they’re all letting their pubic hair grow back. I know—you never thought you’d see the day. Me neither—but the day is here. All across the frozen tundra, idle razors are rusting, and fires kindled from the all the surplus bikini wax are heating homes.

But if the return of the woolly bully is an evil (and I’m not saying it is)—it’s a necessary one, lest all the hot and juicy women we love to love, become nearly impenetrable frigidbitches. I say nearly impenetrable because … where there’s a will, there’s a way. And there’s always a will …

I know, I know … cry you a river. The weather’s a little on the cold side—so turn up the heat, make love with your clothes on, and get over it, you say.

Well, here’s one more indication that we have a real, honest-to-God situation on our hands: my girl started swallowing … just to get something warm in her belly. Trust me, there’s no way she’d be doing that, if the situation wasn’t so … well, sucky.

And just because I don’t mind that so much (she calls me Hotshot now) doesn’t mean it’s not pretty friggin’ cold outside, all the same.

I guess it’s just a matter of taking the hot with the cold.

I’ll try my best.

-Harlowe Pilgrim

PS. Don’t be telling the little lady about hot chocolate, chicken soup, or anything else that would warm her belly up. I’m not looking to introduce any competition.

Copyright 2013 Cock and Bull Publishing, LLC

Harlowe Pilgrim’s books are available at Amazon, iBooks,   Smashwords.com, Books-A-Million, and most other online booksellers.

Follow on Twitter @ https://twitter.com/HarlowePilgrim