From his "Make Something Up: Stories You Can't Unread":

The next part is pretty. A pretty glow. Like a flickering blue Bananas Foster or a Crepe Suzette served tableside. Like a Spanish coffee when the bartender showers it with cinnamons that light up like fireflies so pretty the daddy and the mommy can only gaze down at this blue nimbus like from a black-and-white television showing old movies, this spellbinding blue light that dances down there in her lap hair which must be drenched in secondhand hand sanitizer because that stuff never fully evaporates and because her bush explodes like napalm in the morning behind Charlie Sheen in a second feature, even then the mommy and daddy don’t think to stop-drop-and-roll, stop-drop-and-roll like Bill Cosby told them their whole growing up, instead they scream and even the mommy’s danger zone screams with all the air the daddy’s put inside her, until this blast of air blows fire like a fire-breathing dragon, like a Vietnam War flamethrower or Lieutenant Ellen Ripley chasing the Alien around in the dark, a total kick-ass feminist hero the likes of which nobody had ever seen before until she turned out to be just Sigourney Weaver, even then that fire shot across the backseat to set fire to the daddy’s hand-sanitized danger zone, not just the hair but the skin parts, too, which are still stuck straight out under internal pressure, until having extra foreskin is the least of his worries, even then he’s trying to do justice to how this looks, even if the expression on his kid’s face, Troy’s face, is abject horror, Troy’s dad says it’s like when they go camping and get their marshmallows too close to the flames and they’re left holding this spitting, dripping blob of melting, sizzling mess nobody can extinguish, tons worse than just browning his meat, even then the mommy’s monthly time decides to come, even when it’s not her time, that’s how the ladies do if something startles them, like a spider next to the kitchen sink or a scary Halloween mask, they contract all their muscles in a defensive maneuver, the way a squid will squirt ink to create a smokescreen so she can make her getaway, the mommy gushes out this volcano of blood encircled by a ring of fire.

Even that doesn’t help when the Dodge Dart’s interior ignites making this a fiery fire within a fire like a fireplace inside a burning-down house located in a subdivision of Hell, even then the daddy’s so close that when he’s pulled out he still spits his spermatozoa only on fire from hand sanitizer, shooting pow, pow, pow like tracer bullets, like July Fourth, even then the mommy’s not feeling this big rush of not-pregnant relief, even then the mommy and daddy just jump around the backseat of the Dodge Dart until every headlight behind them is flashing high-low, high-low, and everyone is making rodeo whoopees and shouting, “Let ’er buck!” not knowing it’s a danger zone conflagration, not until the mommy tumbles out one back door of the Dodge and the daddy tumbles out the other back door and even then the idea of stop-drop-and-roll is the last thing that comes to mind, even when they’re both running on fire, trailing burned bits of marshmallow, smoldering, dropping off Bananas Foster gobs that sputter in the drive-in movie gravel, setting fire to paper napkins dropped by litterbugs, even while they keep running to where the faces of Sally Struthers and Steve McQueen just keep kissing bigger and bigger, even then his kid’s face, Troy’s face is one big question mark, even then the kid asks, “Is that where I came from?”