This is a true story.
Where I used to live, there were two sets of neighbors who jointly threw a big Labor Day party each year. One year, there were more people than usual. It was around dusk, and we all had been drinking for several hours. One of my neighbors had two sons ages eleven and fourteen. The fourteen-year-old (let's call him Doug) was hanging out with the adults and trying to sneak beers. Then he excused himself to take a shower.
Doug's father came by and started telling me about the new roof he had installed. He left me there to admire the architectural shingles as well as some siding work when I noticed a light on in one of the upstairs rooms. I was pretty high and possessed the ultra-focus of the ultra-high. I looked at the window and then looked again to make sure I saw what I thought I saw. My bloodshot eyes did not deceive me. I beheld a razor-sharp silhouette of someone masturbating in the shower. It could only have been Doug. After all, his last words were that he was going to take a shower. His shadow was so sharp and crisp, I might as well have been seeing him with the shades up. He was really going to town. He beat that thing like it owed him money.
I nudged the guy next to me and motioned up at the window. He looked and then doubled over laughing. He and I spent the next fifteen to twenty minutes watching as everyone else at the party caught on.
The different reactions were fascinating. Most people looked, widened there eyes, and then looked away. Some people looked and didn't look away. Others looked and then engaged others to witness the spectacle. Then there was Rebecca.
Rebecca lived across the street and was known as the neighborhood ditz. She didn't know that only female cows had udders. She thought Alaska was an island near Hawaii because she'd seen it next to Hawaii on maps (no lie). She looked up at the window as if contemplating the mysteries of the universe with a comically confused look on her face.
"What's he doing up there?" she asked. The rest of us bowed our heads to conceal our laughter. "What's he doing up there? Do you see that? What's he doing?"
We were all dying. Finally, her husband Rich, who was as intelligent as she was clueless, came over and looked up at the window with her.
"What's he doing, Rich?" she asked.
Rich put his arm around her and said, in his posh prep-school dialect, "My dear, that's called pounding the pudding."
I won't do it justice, but Rebecca's response went something like, "What? Pounding pudding? What are you...oh...Oh! Oh my god! He's masturbating?! OH MY GAUUUDD!"
Doug never rejoined the party, and that's a good thing.
I nominate @harpooninvestor and @tenhanger