Well, Beaker sees them, and he freaks out. He’s like, “Brown hair… little dress… STARS ON HER SHOES… Jamie! These are tattoos of YOU!”

“Yeah, but my gut isn’t QUITE that big.”

“Well, of course.”

We’re at his house, and after this conversation, I turn back to the table and whatever I was doing. A few minutes later, I can hear Beaker clearing his throat in that “pay-attention-to-me” tone.

When I turned around, I faced a bottomless Beaker, with a Bitch tattoo firmly affixed to a single, pert, white buttock. He was grinning at me over his left shoulder.

I don’t think I have to worry about him not thinking about me while I’m at Fantasy Fest in Key West this weekend.