Now for a very special Valentines Day edition of the Off the Pole blog. And by special, I mean I am writing this while dressed in a diaper and holding a short bow. A tad bit nipply considering the weather, but I demand fealty to themes and traditions…

The other day while Weirdo was off at a sleepover, the wife and I decided to make Valentines Day sugar cookies with Crazy. With a couple tubes of dough and an assortment of thematic cookie cutters and sprinkles, we got down with the rolling, cutting, decorating and baking.

After cutting out and decorating our delectable assortment of hearts, double hearts, smaller hearts inside of bigger hearts, and L’s, O’s, V’s and E’s — and realizing we had the world’s least creative collection of themed cookie cutters — wifey surveyed the remaining dough and decided to get creative.

Now, I love my wife, as she is rife with a myriad of admirable qualities. Artistry is not one of them.

By a long shot.

And lest you think I am speaking out of school, she will freely admit it.

So, armed with extra dough, wifey decided to craft an arrow penetrating a few of the single heart-shaped cookies. You know, so it would look like this:

Unfortunately, they came out of the oven looking like this:

Do you see it? It looked like this:

Not horrified yet? Let’s try one more time:

If you see a throbbing phallus penetrating a heart like some maniacal necrophiliac broke into a high school biology lab, you share my horror. If you don’t yet, this ain’t one of the pictures where if you stare hard enough a dolphin suddenly appears jumping over a effing sailboat, people. That shit is in your face like your asshole friends shame sketched it on your forehead after you made one too many trips to the keg o’ cheapest swag available.

As background, I freaking LOVE cookies and milk. Every other dessert can pretty much cease to exist as if some confectionary Hunger Wars type shit went down and only one “mom, I cleared my plate” reward goodie emerged from the bakery oven Thunderdome. I don’t love cookies and milk like a fat kid loves cake. I love cookies and milk like Charlie Sheen loves hookers and blow. Are you feeling me?

Sidebar: Two Charlie Sheen/coke jokes in one day. I know, I’ve gone to that well more times than Charlie Sheen’s name appears in Heidi Fleiss’ little black book. SHAZAM! The trifecta, suckas!!! … … … … Ahem. Moving along…

Imagine the scene of me peeling open that Tupperware (is that a proper noun? Wait, I don’t care), the anticipation simmering within me, anxiously waiting to dip a cookie into a cold, cold, cold glass of milk (I religiously stick to the 8-count as how long to submerge the cookie before eating it), and on top of the pile of within that container is…the penis cookie.

What’s the first thing that goes through my head? That I might vomit uncontrollably if I see one of my girls put that phallus-shaped snack into their mouth. NO.

No, no, no, no, no, no, NO!

So like a freak, I quickly snatch it from the container and hide it under a napkin. I’m dead effing serious. That’s how neurotic I am about this B.S.. Then after we have finished dessert, I sneak the penis cookie away to my office and snap the penis head off.

Much better.

I did this without a wince or flinch. Let me speak to the fellas out there. When you see something like this…

… you instantly wince, right? Mayhap reflexively shield, or cup (I don’t judge), your genitalia? Not this time. I hacked that shizzle off like it the head of a poisonous snake ready to strike.

I get that I have issues, and that I am probably in need of professional help, but I gotta do what I gotta due to keep my babies pure.

Too bad we hadn’t made the cookies a few weeks back though. I totally could have entered the Penny Arcade Dickerdoodle contest.

Postscript: I spelled “necrophiliac” correctly on the first try, but Tupperware I effed up. I’m a wreck.