H.E.: Are donkey dicks really green, do you think?

[We’re having a late dinner at a restaurant when H.E. asks me this, and I look at him as if he just sprouted a new head.]

April: You think I’d know?

H.E.: I don’t know. What do you think?

[He’s got a mischievous sparkle in the eye as he speaks, and he starts to bite into his turkey club sandwich. Me, I seriously think about the original question and ponder aloud about how the phrase might have evolved.]

April: Big green donkey dicks. It’s probably a rhythm thing. Big purple donkey dicks doesn’t roll off the tongue quite as easily.

[All at once, he snorts, pitches forward, and nearly chokes on his food as he tries not to laugh.]

April: What? What did I say? Big purple donkey dicks? It wasn’t that funny.

[He shakes his head and takes a drink so he can swallow.]

H.E.: No, no, it wasn’t that. It was the vision of a purple donkey dick rolling off your tongue.

April: Oh.

[And suddenly, I’m laughing too, only just now struck by the humor. In fact, I giggle at the thought every now and then throughout the rest of the meal.]

H.E.: It’s amazing. Gracie had six writers, and to you it comes naturally.

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