The Thong Also Rises Read Online Free

work, across the border.
    â€œWhat can I say?” I imagined myself addressing a jury of my peers. “I want to breathe, I hate to sneeze, and if any one of you has ever been itchy down there, well, you know you would have done the same thing.”
    And then, against all odds in favor of a miracle at this particular moment, another guard came over to the station and nodded to the guard that was hating me.
    â€œYou wanna go on break now?” he asked my mean guard.
    â€œYeah,” my guard said, wiping his brow with his sleeve, then gave me one last dirty look, and simply walked away.
    He walked away. Just left us standing there, with all of my medication, enough drugs on that table to start my own rest home. Then the other guard followed him, leaving us alone at the counter.
    And that’s when I opened my purse, swiped my drugs into it, and very, very, very quickly walked away as fast as I could without generating electricity between my thighs.
    The narc that I’m married to followed behind by a couple of steps, and when we finally reached the car and got in, neither of us said a word until we were at least ten miles outside of the Nogales city limits.
    â€œWe are assholes,” my husband finally said, still visibly shaken. “I can’t believe we did that. That was horrible! I never thought we’d get out of there. I’m so glad to be out of there!”
    â€œYeah,” I agreed. “No thanks to you, Donnie Brasco! ‘No, no, I didn’t buy anything. Nope. Not me. Not I.’ Stoolie!”
    â€œStoolie?” my husband shot back. “What about you and your ‘I’m an American !’ act? Are you aware that you said it in a Texas accent ? ‘Ah-meh-rih-cahn!!’ Oh! Oh! And ‘this is for my LADY TROUBLES!’ Lady troubles? Where are you, Charleston, South Carolina, circa 1940?”
    â€œNo, I was in MEXICO, about to go to PRISON!” I shouted.
    â€œBut yer ehn Ah-meh-rih-cahn!!” my husband shouted. “Who’s on more medication than my grandma!”
    â€œYou are a dork,” I said matter-of-factly.
    â€œNo, you are a dork,” he retorted. “And you are never going to Mexico again.”
    â€œI already know that,” I informed him.
    â€œAnd we are never telling anyone about this, O.K.? No one. No one needs to know what idiots we are. O.K.?” he said firmly.
    â€œO.K.,” I agreed.
    â€œSwear?” he insisted.
    â€œOn Ah-meh-rih-cuh!” I swore.
    Laurie Notaro is currently unemployed and childless and enjoys spending her days searching for Bigfoot documentaries on the Discovery Channel, delights in a good peach cobbler, and has sadly discovered that compulsively lying on her headgear chart in the seventh grade has come around to bite her in the behind. Despite several escape attempts, she still lives in Phoenix, Arizona, where she is technologically unable to set up the voice mail on her cell phone, which she has never charged anyway. She is the author of I Love Everybody (and Other Atrocious Lies) from which this story is excerpted.

    On our third morning in Paris, I discovered that I was having “feminine problems.” Armed with a phrasebook, I marched down to the pharmacy. Swallowing any remnants of American pride and Catholic shame, I began to tell the sweet, bespectacled granny behind the counter that I had an issue “down there” and would need some type of cream. Words were exchanged but we were not communicating. Then, the untranslatable happened. Without warning, Grandmère squatted behind the counter, spread her knees, and made earnest jabbing motions with her index finger between her legs. I was so flabbergasted, all I could say was, “Uhh, non. ” We tried a few other more subtle hand gestures until we finally arrived at the same answer and the right medicine. And while Iwill now always have fond memories of how helpful and kind the lady at my pharmacy was,