Hot Slut Of The Day!

Caladryl!

That dried pink gunk on the tip takes me back. “Me too” said every dude who once jacked off next to Liberace.

Last night we learned that for the next few days, St. Angie Jolie’s royal minions will be busy gently patting the itches out of her Chickenpox bumps as Jennifer Aniston cackles loudly while petting her Cabbage Patch Cat and God punishes humanity for this by unleashing massive Southern California tornadoes (or as an Oklahoman calls them, “Light, gentle, soothing breezes.“) on L.A. The pox on St. Angie made me remember the time Chickenpox got me. I was in the first grade (if my corroded memory serves me right, which it usually doesn’t) and a bunch of kids in my class got hit at the same time.

I pretty much lived in a bath tub for two weeks straight. When I wasn’t soothing the worst feeling I’ve ever felt since the time my mom wrongly made me eat liver and onions, I split my time between listening to my abuelita scream at me for scratching instead of patting and pouring the pink goodness known as Caladryl all over my body. Thanks to modern science, Caladryl dries clear now, but it didn’t when I was a kid. So not only did it temporarily take away the itches from the Satan’s rash on my body, but it also left pink polka dots all over me. It was a junior gay dream come true. It was the greatest thing to me at the time.

During my Chickenpox struggle, one of my mom’s friends came over and as she watched me dab Caladryl on my Chickenpox bumps, she said that one of her dumbass kids drank that stuff once, because they thought it would taste like Strawberry Quik. I laughed about it at the time, but now I’m wondering what Caladryl would taste like with some white rum and peppermint schnapps.

And it’s really surprising that not one Hollywood mess has named their kid Caladryl yet.