TAG.

When I was in the fourth grade, I was tested to see if I was "Talented And Gifted". Somehow, although just returning from a two week bout of pneumonia, I fooled the lady into submission (most likely I made a beyond-my-years sarcastic joke).
At first, I thought it was going to be great. Once a week, I would ride a bus to another school where, for a day, I got to play with other TAG kids. What they forgot to mention was a) the bus that would take us was a Short Bus; and b) the school was also home to the kids who had to wear helmets and really did lick the windows. Believe it or not, these two factors made the whole thing less enjoyable.
Until the day in seventh grade where I realized something was off. Every time we rode that bus to the Other School (kinda like The Other Sister), we would pass by a beauty parlor. It was the kind of place where old ladies went only to come out with blue meringue atop their heads.
The wooden sign read in block letters "Cut N Blow". It was a masculine looking sign, and as I had just learned what a blow-job was (not by experience, I was only in the seventh grade and as I had braces until I was fifteen, my exploits began a little late in the game), I began to guffaw while I imagined men going in for haircuts and blowjobs.
Here began a problem where I was too embarrassed to explain to the other TAG kids what I was laughing about.
Often times, my mind still gets me in troublesome spots like this. Mostly, though, I've gotten to a place where I just voice my inappropriate thoughts.
It lets me know who my real friends are or at least know who the fun people are; you know, the people who stick around to hear what I'll say next.