I know from personal experience that all condoms are not created equal. I had been using a service called “Plenty of Fish.” Not for me, though. For my grandmother (she’s too old to work a smartphone; also thinks they are magic). A little background about that company: they started out as a home delivery service for individuals looking to purchase bulk seafood at discount prices. Over time, customers started fornicating with the delivery guys a la “Can’t Buy Me Love,” so they pivoted into online dating.

Anyway, we met a very nice plumber named Stewart through PoF. My grandmother Invited him into her bedchambers on their very first date, as is tradition. They ended up doing the horizontal mambo, if you know what I mean (I mean they banged), all night long and with no regard to whoever might be trying to sleep in the next room over.

Sometime during the sixth hour, she and her gentleman friend experienced something known in the prophylactic industry as a “blow out.” In lemons terms, this means the condom Stewart was wearing exceeded its stress limits and was subsequently torn asunder. A full on rip as it were, for when Stewart retracted his dongle from my grandmother, remnants of shredded latex were left behind.

For those who aren’t aware, it is generally considered bad form to leave semen encrusted latex inside your lady. Stewart, being a gentleman and all, quickly went to retrieve some of his plumbing tools from his plumbing van. He must have spent an hour with a snake trying to remove bits of condom from her, but to no avail. I told Stewart I’d like to try my luck. He said he’d have to leave the premises immediately on account of the fact I was not part of the plumbers union. I told him I was a pretty good pipefitter, if he caught my meaning. I winked at him, too, just in case. Didn’t look like he caught my meaning, though, if you know what I mean (I mean he didn’t know what I mean). I then explained how I was good at fitting my dick inside pipe-shaped things. Since he still looked confused, I decided I needed to really paint him a picture. Literally. I did a watercolor of my shopping for 5/8 inch diameter pipes, then sticking my wiener in them. Stewart took his leave soon after.

So my grandmother’s feminine health was left in my hands, a movie I’ve certainly seen before. Luckily for her, I’m practised in the art of removing foreign objects from my orifices (got a badge for that in the Boy Scouts).

First off, I took my grandmothers chin up bar from her doorway and put it between her knees so as to keep them spread wide. Then, I got a two liter of Diet Coke from the fridge and a pack of Mentos from the garage. You probably know where this is going, so I will spare you the gory details about how I stuffed Mentos in her from cervix to labia majora, then funneled the Diet Coke inside until her vagina fizzed up like that volcano we made in second grade. And I will certainly not mention how pieces of latex weren’t the only items that surfaced from her hoo-ha, because most folks don’t want to hear about how a corkscrew, a key fob to an Audi, and $1.72 bubbled out as well.

My grandmother never did get pregnant, luckily. But merely spending a couple extra bucks on good condoms, the ones that undergo rigorous animal and cold weather testing, would have spared a perfectly good pack of Mentos and a perfectly good Diet Coke. You live and you learn I guess.