I’m sure there are other people on earth who, when they are at their wit’s end, call their moms and say “Mooooommmmm! How do I paint penises?!” but I don’t know any offhand.

Fortunately, my Mom is a font of useful suggestions for capturing the wily wang in paint, and I am now back on track.

And that probably says way more about the oddity of my life than anybody really needs to know.

Originally published at Tea with the Squash God. You can comment here or there.