Those are the shrieking eels!

Today I went to the MFA with my friend H. H is one of two wonderful women who came into my life via the chickenfucker. Proof that every cloud has a silver lining.

H is a PA and was at one time a surgical PA, assisting in things like chest-crackings and rib-spreadings, and therefore entirely comfortable with lunchtime conversations around blood, guts, gore, and number two. Surprisingly -- or unsurprisingly, once you have gotten to know me a little better -- I somehow manage to bring up inappropriate things at mealtimes, kind of a lot.

After lunch H led me excitedly to one of the many treasures the museum has to offer. And by treasures I mean Greek urns depicting scenes of debauchery. For example, there is one urn with an orgy scene whose placard not only helpfully points out a dildo, it also explains for viewers that the gentleman brandishing a sandal intends to use it in a "sadistic" fashion.

Then there's another urn featuring a prostitute and her john; the placard describing the scene notes the john is telling the prostitute, who is bent fetchingly over a chair, to "hold still."

Anyhoo for some strange reason I keep running the sentence "Those are the dirty urns!" over and over in my mind, but instead of my voice I hear Wallace Shawn's.