The time I got a neti pot.

It's during this season each year that my sinus cavities self-destruct in a sort of fiery explosion. This has been evidenced lately by my puffy face, inky under-eye circles, and aura of uncontrolled anger -- in short, it's gone too far, and my constantly throbbing brow bone is making me unfit to deal with the public. After failed attempts with a handful of nasal sprays and antihistamines, my mom decided to buy me a neti pot (only, of course, after I'86ed the idea of partaking in the family's communal neti pot, for obvious reasons).
As far as I have known, neti pots are generally neutral-hued ceramic teapot-looking thingys with linear spouts. What I found waiting on the kitchen table for me this evening, however, looked like this:

Of course, being the shrewd consumer I am, I realized promptly that my mom had mistakenly purchased a smurf dick. I wanted to broach the subjectly delicately, so as not to offend her -- after all, she had made a well-meaning effort.

"Thanks, Mom," I said perkily, and then paused a moment. "But... uh, doesn't this look a little ... WEIRD to you?" Blank stare. Then a flicker of understanding crossed her face. Ah-hah, I thought. Now she sees.

"Do you not like that it's plastic?" ... Or maybe not.

"No, um, plastic is fine." Not wanting to push the issue any further, I left well enough alone for the rest of the evening. By the time my dad came home, however, I was dying for a chance to remark about the Smurf wiener with someone who truly understood. I just wanted to skirt the issue gingerly so as not to be the first one to say, "IT'S A LITTLE BLUE WANG!!!!"

"So Mom got me a neti pot today."

"Uh-huh." Total disinterest -- but wait till he sees the montrosity! The hilarity! I push the boldly emblazoned box toward him. Dr. Neil's face is grinning peevishly above the pennacle of his genius.

"Does this look kind of... FUNNY to you?" He adjusts his glasses, still looking less-than-intrigued by my
topic. He takes the box in his hands and studies it for a moment.

"Did you not want a blue one?" My heart sank.

"No, the blue is fine... it's just... it's fine." Seriously? I'd like to take a moment to offer an important point of comparison:

My parents are, naturally, considerably older than myself. They've come quite a ways in life and, honestly, I don't understand how they could have made it this far without recognizing a little blue phallus when they see
one. I was almost beginning to think there was something wrong with me; I mean, it's no secret that liberal arts educations can imbue recipients with an unparalleled passion for identifying phallic objects.

Later that night, still haunted by my bizarrely unsupported impression of the neti pot, I fell asleep on a friend's couch during a stint of uncompelling programming. After an unknown length of time in that fitful, half-wakeful sleep that's punctuated by the lights and dialogue of late-night TV, I woke suddenly. I was tired. I needed to get home to my own bed. I looked around with drowsy curiosity, like I expected myself to have dozed off in any number of exotic places. How I Met Your Mother was stretched across the widescreen. As the images came into focus, something seemed strangely familiar. Barney was hunched over a kitchen sink next to some woman -- with the same NeilMed SmurfDick wedged up his nose.

I'll let you interpret this Neil Patrick Harris situation for yourself. As for my own dickpot, I'm still a little iffy.