In restaurants, I say to the server, Please don't put a pickle on my plate. Occasionally, I even say, I'm the President of the Pickle-Hating Society.
That's right: No pickles will pass these lips, Papa.
My sisters and I will not eat pickles, and no, that's not a euphemism for penis.
Blow jobs: Fine.
You see, our mother did a terrible thing to us when we were growing up: She made pickles. It was childhood pickle abuse.
That's because the stench from the pickle cooking made us all sick. I almost fainted once because of that odor and she could not figure out what might be wrong with me. But, we weren't allowed to say OH MAN THOSE PICKLES STINK! Because she would say, Oh, shut the hell up! They do not.
But I don't remember HER ever eating a pickle either. I think my dead brother ate them.
Ate the pickles. Died young.
Coincidence? I think not.
Infinities of love,
P.S. My sister has taken a turn for the better! She shakes and nods her head to answer questions and can move her fingers. Probably puts up the middle finger most of the time. Thank you all so much for your concern, your good wishes, and your prayers. I'll let you know when I hear about more progress.