Twisted Intentions

"Oooh," moans Brat, clutching her chest and doubling over, "oooh, oooh, oooh."

Brows raised, Beamer and I look at each other and then turn to stare at Brat. We're in the middle of the baby supply aisle when our little sister goes into a full body spasm.

Brat rubs a hand across the front of her shirt, and contorts her face. "That has to hurt."

Perplexed, Beamer stutters a laugh. "What has to hurt?"

"That," Brat points at the shelves.

Beamer studies the display, then turns to Brat. "The nipple brush?"

"Oooh," she nods, "oooh, oooh, oooh."

For a moment, we purse our lips and then start to laugh. I snort as Beamer says. "You don't use the brush on your nipples, you use it to clean baby bottles."

"Oh," says Brat, as shes saunters down the aisle, "nevermind."