do you have Prince Albert in your pants?

If you work in auto claims for more than a day, you’re bound to come across some truly grisly claims.

Yesterday, a gaggle of coworkers was paging through a thick coroner’s report, detailing the rather mangled condition of a gentleman who thought it would be a great idea to stroll down the middle of the freeway naked while under the supervision of Jack Daniels and Captain Morgan.

“It’s so sad how the dead lose all their privacy,” Giggles lamented. “I mean, look at this…it tells you how much he weighed, all his scars and moles and tattoos and piercings...”

Suddenly, she stopped and broke out into a peal of laughter. “Oh my god, oh my god, listen. Piercings: two in left ear, three in right ear, right side of nose, and…and…oh my god, a Prince Albert!”

I began chortling, but no one else joined Giggles and me in our merriment.

“What?” Kitty, a sweet Filipino woman, said. “What is this Prince Albert?”

“Got me,” someone else said, and for some reason, everyone turned to look at me.

“C, what is this Prince Albert?” Kitty demanded. I waved my hand at her and tried to regain my composure. “Like the Prince Albert in a can? What?”

Chortles turned into guffaws.

G, the mail and file guy, stopped to grab the mail from the baskets, and Kitty accosted him. “G, tell me, have you heard of a Prince Charles?”

“Prince Charles?” G said, mystified. “Of course. He was married to Princess Diana.”

“No, no, Prince Albert, Kitty!” Giggles said.

“Okay, then, what is a Prince Albert, G?” Kitty beseeched. He shrugged and went on his way, and Kitty stomped over to my cube and said, “C, tell me what is a Prince Albert!”

In between giggles, I wheezed, “A Prince…Albert…is a piercing in…uh…a man’s most sensitive area.”

She gasped in horror and covered her mouth. “You mean in his…his TESTICLES?”

I banged my fist against my desk, howling.

I think I’m going to like these girls.