Baking and Babies (Chocoholics #3)(26)

“I’m telling you, I’ve seen the stats and maybe I’m in the minority here, but I’m going to have to side with Carter on this one,” Drew says with a sigh as I enter the room and find them seated around the coffee table.

“Perfect timing, Marco Polo,” Drew greets me with a smile. “You can settle this debate once and for all.”

I drop into the remaining empty chair and lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees and clasping my hands together between them.

“Lay it on me. What’s the topic? Presidential candidates? War climate?” I ask.

Drew looks at me like I’ve grown two heads. “Uh, no. We’re talking dicks.”

“Bag of dicks, to be precise,” Jim adds.

I sit up slowly, wondering if I should walk back out of the room and pretend like I was never here.

“I’m sure you’ve heard the expression ‘eat a bag of dicks’, correct?” Carter questions seriously.

Drew rolls his eyes when I continue to sit here, planning my escape without answering the question.

“You know, like, ‘Eat a bag of dicks, you piece of shit!’” Drew yells in an angry voice. “Tell me you’ve heard it or I’m going to seriously regret giving you the privilege of seeing my amazing balls.

Not wanting him to mention those bald, wrinkly, scarred pieces of flesh again, I nod in agreement. “Yeah, sure. I’ve heard the phrase. Why?”

“We need you to settle this argument once and for all,” Jim states.

“Okaaaaaay,” I drag the word out cautiously and a little bit in fear.

“I mean, how big of a bag are we talking here? Like, Ziploc baggie or Hefty garbage bag? Because size really does matter when it comes to eating dicks,” Drew states.

“That is false and you know it!” Carter argues. “Eating a bag of dicks is eating a bag of dicks whether you eat ten or a hundred and ten. You’re still eating dicks!”

Jim nods, his face a mask of complete seriousness. “And if size really does matter, is this bag of dicks hot-dog-sized dicks, or cocktail-weenie dicks? Because I think I could handle a bag of cocktail weenies, no problem.”

“Of course you could, cock sucker,” Drew laughs. “We all know how much you like to gobble up those dicks. Nom, nom, nom!”

Carter lifts his hand and silently gives him the finger.

“I think it makes much more sense if people would just say ‘Eat a dick’, rather than an entire bag of dicks,” Jim says with a sigh. “It would cut down on so much confusion, and then we wouldn’t even be having this debate. Marco, what are your thoughts on the situation?”

I think I’d rather be talking about placentas right now.





Chapter 9




– Pee Hand –

Molly




“I’m sorry, minivan means WHAT? And how do you even know this?” Charlotte asks loudly.

A few people in the waiting room look in our direction and mom shushes us. I lean in closer to Charlotte, speaking as softly as I can.

“When I walked back into the house the other night, I heard Uncle Drew explaining it to Marco. I can’t even repeat it, just look it up on Urban Dictionary,” I explain.

Of course she immediately pulls her phone out of her purse, goes to that stupid website, and starts reading the definition out loud.

“The act of putting two fingers in the vagina and a fist up the ass. Called the minivan because you can fit two in the front and five in the back.”

I shudder just imagining it, and Charlotte can’t decide between being disgusted along with me or laughing, the noise she makes coming out as some sort of gag-snort-cough that makes everyone look at us again.

“Sorry!” she apologizes loudly. “Just discussing minivans and their amazing rear capacity!”

I smack her in the arm and she tucks her phone back in her purse, still laughing.

“That still doesn’t explain why dad, Uncle Carter, and Uncle Drew keep calling Marco, Mo and then laughing like idiots the rest of the night,” she says in confusion as she turns to face me.

I sigh, thinking about all the abuse Marco took the other night and realizing it’s probably why he hasn’t called since then.

“Not Mo, like the name. M. O. – M period, O period, for Minivan Operator.”

Charlotte giggles and I glance down at my phone instead of punching her for laughing at poor Marco. This is the hundredth time I’ve checked my phone today and I try not to feel like an idiot for doing so when I don’t see any new messages or missed calls. I will not be like one of those stupid girls who powers the phone off and on just to make sure it’s working. And not because I already called Charlotte four times in the last half hour and made her call me twice to confirm I can in fact still receive incoming calls, but because I have more dignity than that, dammit.

It’s bad enough I have that whole minivan fisting image in my head, now I have to deal with anxiety about not hearing from Marco since the text he sent me yesterday morning, the day after the strangest day of my life that ended with my dad and uncles daring Marco to eat a quart-sized Ziploc bag of hot dogs in under a minute to prove some point I didn’t even want to ask about. On top of not hearing from him since he texted me to say he now knew what the meat sweats were and he’d been puking up hot dogs since he got home from my house, I’ve been forced to go to the doctor to confirm my fake pregnancy.