Emily and Heather had just finished their sophomore year at Hallelujah Christian College near Philadelphia. Desperate for summer employment, they searched the want ads, and pounded the streets diligently but futilely.
This activity was not without its hazards. Although they didn't realize it, each had a tendency to stop traffic and turn heads. One "victim" had the gall to sue Heather for whiplash, but the judge ruled contributory negligence on his part. Of course, it wasn't a difficult ruling to make, especially after the plaintiff made the mistake of saying at the trial that his little head hurt too, from whipping it so much after seeing Heather (obliviously) sauntering on the sidewalk.
Both girls were unaware of their beauty, which was exceeded only by their naivete. Emily, about five-six, was fully of bubbly energy. When she wore her blond hair in her favored braids or pigtails, she had a fresh, wholesome appearance that still managed to look incredibly sexy. Of course, her generous bosom endowment didn't hurt in that respect. Heather's slender frame was taller and, while less amply endowed than Emily, her figure had more curves than most. This, coupled with sultry features framed by long, black, silky hair, suggested a sexual volcano on the verge of eruption.
After searching through page and page of ads requiring years of experience, technical certifications, or advanced degrees, Emily finally found one that she felt qualified for: "Dancer wanted. Looks matter. Dance moves don't." Unfortunately, the address listed was for a strip club and her father, the minister's, fifteen-minute sermon boiled down to "Hell no!" Heather, a certified lifeguard, found an opening at the YMCA, but her father absolutely forbade her from spending the summer there in a skimpy little swim suit.
But the next day Heather’s father noticed an interesting ad as he sat in the kitchen drinking coffee and reading the paper. “Researchers needed to conduct statistical analysis on wieners. Contact Dr. June Sisters at the Big Fatty Institute. IN PERSON ONLY.”
“Hey, Heather!” her father called out. She and Emily were lounging in their pajamas in the living room watching cartoons.
“Yes, Daddy?” Emily tagged along right behind her. “Did you make us breakfast? You know not to bother me when I’m watching my favorite shows.”
“Look at this add, Heather. It looks perfect for you and Emily. Doing research on hot dogs. Yesterday, when you went grocery shopping for your mother and I, didn’t I tell you to get Ballpark beef franks and Smith’s natural casing wieners? You came back with ten packages of Gwaltney turkey frankfurters.”
“But Daddy, they only cost $1.29 a package. Those ones you said to buy were real expensive. Almost four dollars. I needed the extra money to buy…uh…feminine products.”
“You bought a bunch of magazines,” Emily whispered so only Heather could hear.
“Oh, well, that’s okay then, honey,” her father said. “I’ll go buy the Ballpark and Smith’s dogs. You know we’re having a picnic tonight. I don’t want our friends and neighbors to think we eat cheap. You should apply for this job. In addition to making some money, maybe you’ll learn to discern the difference in the quality of one hot dog compared to another.”
“Daddy! I don’t even like hot dogs!”
“You will, honey. It’s an acquired taste. Your mother didn’t like hot dogs either until I put mine in her bun. That special secret stuff I put in the middle just squirts into your mouth when you take a bite. Much tastier than those cheese dogs.”
“I don’t like it, Daddy. Too salty or something.”
Her father laughed. “Honey, remember that picture I took of you when you were little and you took a big bite of a hot dog and the creamy stuff oozed out of your mouth and dribbled down your chin? You spit it out instead of swallowing it.”
“Yuk, Daddy!”
“Heather, now you go and apply for that job. Emily, too. Perhaps you will learn to enjoy eating a good hot dog. And take those hot dogs you bought with you. In case you get hungry.
“Yes, Daddy.”
“And I like the idea of you working for a woman, this Dr. June Sisters. I don’t want you to be sexually harassed by some dirty old man.”
“I don’t want to be sexually harassed either, Daddy. I don’t want any man to touch me until my wedding night.”
“That’s the attitude, honey. Did you and Emily do your devotions and pray this morning?”
“Of course, Daddy. And Emily’s father called to make sure we did, just like he always does when she sleeps over.”
“Now you two girls just go over to that institute and apply.”
“But Daddy,” Heather fussed, “we don’t know anything about ‘statistical analysis’ like it said in the paper. We are liberal arts majors. We haven’t learned how to do anything.”
“Didn’t I tell you to major in accounting, honey? Now, just go. If part of the research involves tasting the hot dogs, just make sure you swallow instead of spit.”
“I will, Daddy!”
* * *
Emily and Heather applied for the position of researcher for Dr. June Sisters at the Big Fatty Institute. Dr. Sisters interviewed them together.
“Where is Dr. June Sisters?” Heather asked the elderly gentleman.
“That’s me.”
“Oh. My father thought you were a girl. You know, the name June.”
“Men are named June, also,” he responded irritably. “There is a football coach named June Jones. Does it really matter whether I am a man or a woman?”
“Oh no, not at all. My father was just worried my boss might sexually harass me. But you’re much too old for that.”
He frowned. “Let us continue. There is much work to be done.” First, he gave them a little test. “Write ‘I we tall did’ on the slip of paper I gave you.” They did. “Now read what you wrote.” They did. He began to giggle.
“What’s so funny?” Heather asked him.
“What you said. ‘I retarded.’ That’s not funny?” He doubled over in hysterical laughter. “Just a little ice-breaker. We have serious business to discuss.”
“What’s so serious?” Emily inquired.
“The penis of the male of the species.”
“That does sound serious!” Heather blurted. “But we thought we were going to do some sort of research on hot dogs.”
“Yes, well, I guess you misinterpreted the add in the paper. Aren’t you interested any longer?” he asked.
“Yes, we are!” they both chimed.
“Good. My institute has been awarded a significant government grant to answer once and for all the age-old question, ‘Does size matter?’ Do you girls think size matters?”
“Huh?” Heather reacted.
“Let me rephrase the question, my dear. Is it how deep you fish, or is it how you wiggle the worm?”
“I don’t understand, Dr. Sisters,” Emily responded. “What in the world are you talking about?”
“Sex, Emily, sex. Does it matter to a woman how big her lover’s penis is?”
