WILMA FINGERDO
This week had a theme, a pretty straightforward one too: "Katie, Wilma Fingerdo", laced with syphilis, oozing herpes sores, attached to a gnome wearing a trollee-esq mask when you least expect it, EVERY FUCKING DAY?! I met with optadaddy on Monday to discuss my lady balls. While I appreciate his enthusiasm for Graves' ophthalmology because really, if a doctor has a raging hard on for something that's ailing you, s/he's the DR you want. Right? Right. I'm in the chair. Between us is the peeper machine that scopes your balls. While he's fondling mine with said machine, he's going on and on and on about his latest study with rabbits and rats and their peepers popping. Again, I appreciate his enthusiasm, but do I really need the deets? I said, "My sister had a rabbit named Clovis", thinking this would ignite the, oh-I've-said-too-much-gene, and make him stop. On the contrary, he didn't. After the fondlefest, I said, "Ya know, DRB, I r