At the drugstore last night with My Lovely Wife. She’s chatting with the pharmacist while I’m zoning out. My eyes drift behind the counter to the racks and racks of illicit behind-the-counter items. Needles. Tylenol 3 with codeine. Glucose Meters.

And then my eyes stop at the bottom shelf.

One shelf. Roughly two feet long, one foot high. Filled with white plastic jars. No colourful labels or packaging. Just white plastic jars, each with two words printed on them in plain black lettering:

“BUTTOCKS PASTE”

…

Yes. I know. The rational, evolved portion of my brain knows that it is paste for buttocks.

But there is one teeny-tiny piece of my brain that is running into the night, screaming over and over again…

PASTE OF BUTTOCKS! PASTE OF BUTTOCKS! PASTE OF BUTTOCKS!

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