Sunday, February 20, 2011
By the time I left I felt well prepared for the real world. I mean I knew how to sew, bake, cook, crochet, sing, and support *priesthood holders. Of course my sense of preparedness quickly diminished when I realized most of my skills went out of style in the late 1800's. It didn't take long for me to realize that my sense of reality was amazingly naive.
Naivety has plagued me ever since. Oh sure, I talk big and act like I know what's going on, but truth be known I'm pretty sure unicorns still exist and refuse to believe that people actually enjoy premarital sex. Ok, maybe that last one's not so hard to believe, but I thought it would drive home the point that the first 20 years of my life were pretty unrealistic when compared to the rest of the world.
I was reminded of this the other day in class when someone asked me what my porn name was (that wasn't the official class topic but the topic my discussion group decided to pursue). My classmates' names were something like "Sparkle Kingsley" and "Harry Jones". My name? Cooter Pabst. Now, just in case you don't know how one comes up with a porn name, it's the name of one of your childhood pets and you're mom's maiden name.
Yes. The Hansons had a dog named Cooter. She was a basset hound. The matriarch of our basset hound puppy mill. No, the Hanson family WAS NOT aware that in the rest of the world "Cooter" is just another crude name for the vagina.
Now let me just say that nothing ruins a good childhood memory like a room full of people laughing at your dog, who was evidently named after lady parts. WE DIDN'T KNOW! How could we? People don't talk about lady parts behind the *Zion Curtain...the cupcake lesson is as close as we ever got to discussing human anatomy or sex. Which now that I think of it, may have contributed to the fact that my high school had the highest teen pregnancy rate per capita IN THE NATION. The sweetest irony is that our high school mascot was the Trojan. Had the community known what a Trojan refers to in modern times, we may have been able to squeak out a sweet sponsorship deal. But in a land where people naively name their dog Cooter because it's a fun play on the word "cuter", profiting off of someone else misusing their cooter just wasn't in the cards. Which really is a shame because we could have used that money to import a sex education teacher. But alas, sex education isn't allowed behind the Zion Curtain. Mormon's don't have sex, they just have babies. As did Cooter.
Cooter had oodles and oodles of babies. Sweet insanely long-eared, gigantic-pawed, brown-eyed babies. There really isn't anything cuter than a yard full of baby Cooters. Oh how we loved those puppies. Every spring Cooter had a litter. It was always super exciting for us kids to count them little Cooters one-by-one, calculating the amount of vacation money we'd have when we sold them all. Larger litters = larger vacations. I never would have seen Disneyland had it not been for prostituting Cooter, then selling her babies for cold hard cash. Cooter was more than just a family pet, she was a gold mine...which could probably be said about cooters everywhere. Maybe we did name her appropriately.
Yes, I had a dog named Cooter. And boy do I miss her. I miss my Cooter.
Posted by Carrie at 6:36 AM