Tongue Ring Defines Yankability

Whether pant legs, necklaces or forbidden goods atop the counters, there’s no doubt I’ve blossomed into a real yanker. But there’s nothing quite so yankable as my latest discovery, the tongue ring.

Say, what have we here?
Say, what have we here?

Daddy-O is a real sucker for a good deal, so when he was offered a free piercing for Christmas many years back, he just couldn’t refuse. His good value in self-mutilation has become my greatest fortune in stuff-yanking and I just can’t get enough. Why? Because he won’t let me.

Look at that stealthy curiosity. It hides, it moves, it’s shiny and it demands my every last ounce of attention, my affection, and whenever possible, my strongest allowable yank.

Oh to yank with yanksome yankitude. For yankerous yankness, count me your oinky New Pork Yankee of yankest yankery. I love to yank and yank to love, gosh darn it.

When dad jibber-jabbers at me in his uniquely grown-up way, it peeks out at me. When we taunt one another with tonguey insults it taunts me doubly more. He couldn’t resist wanting it back then and I can’t resist wanting to grab it now. That’s totally fair, right?

It’s a slippery item of grabby yankability alrighty-o. See it and poke it, no problem. Try to grab it and yank it as I may, but trying to get a graspy grip isn’t as easy as it seems. Darn thing is covered in daddy slobber. Yuck, you know?

I keep trying and he keeps saying no, so I’m off to find some tools. Maybe a hand rag to dry it, maybe my Fisher Price pliers. I don’t know yet. I bid you well as I’m off to reinvent my grabbery. I’ll keep grabbing, you just keep reading. We’re still cool, right?

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