Whatever you do, DO NOT open an unmarked, pink box!
Let’s say you have a shoebox of whorish goods safely hidden in the back of your closet…..and then you die. When it’s time to box up your life someone will find it and word will spread that yours truly, once an admirable citizen, is now remembered as desperately perverted.
Please don't do this to your father.
What if your new apartment didn’t permit privacy from roommates and in fact provided uncanny acoustics which amplified small vibrations? Or consider what you would do if you had to move and pack all your personal belongings into plane luggage and carry-ons. I don’t think TSA employees leave notes for sexual deviant nobodies upon finding a shoebox full of dirty Johnsons. When I faced the latter of these two situations, I decided to bury my Box O’ Boyfriends deep in the darkness and putridity of an unmarked dumpster. Poor little guys, they’re always covered in goo.
But what happens to rubbish like that? Where I lived most people took their own rubbish to the dump, and it was transferred a number of times before being bulldozed into the landfill. I know someone sees the rubbish, crap, a number of people see it!
This guy can't wait to get a box of dildos thrown at him!
First, there’s the transfer station attendant who looks down the shoot methodically every few minutes (this is the same person who rubbernecks at car accidents and pulls over for roadkill). Especially after a young woman with watery eyes pulls up to toss one lonely shoebox into the mix and leaves in a haze of burned rubber and skid marks.
"OH MY GOD....WHAT DID I JUST DOOOOO?!!"
Then there’s the guy who stands by the truck as it dumps its load at the landfill. I know he’s a pervert. In a sea of brown rotten food and broken electronics my beloved toys would surely stand out. Pinks and flesh tones decorated with rows of pearls and beads. Shiny, chrome bullets and oblong spheres glistening in the sun against unloved filth. All of them, banded together just like Blanky, Radio and the Brave Little Toaster. Damn, I’m sure sorry about that children’s movie reference. But if you’ve seen it, your imagination can now replace these friends with assorted dildos. I think I have kept my baby blanket this long for fear that it wouldn’t have a friend like the Brave Little Toaster to bail him out.
But last and most menacing, is the man in the bulldozer. He sees everything as it’s skimmed down to thin layers and compacted into the ground. I picture him actually stopping to see if the chrome object is of value. Believe you me, if it could be disinfected it sure would be!
Ooh, so shiny and well-shaped for nooks and crannies! Thanks, Honey. XOXO
When he bends over he finds a remote with more buttons than any remote control car he’s ever played with. But catching his eye is something which gives him the creeps. He’s heard the urban legends and has had nightmares of this happening one day. Finding a dumped, dead body. He can see the fleshy skin, it’s so real. He’s narrowed it down to a toddler’s arm or the ugliest foot he has ever seen. But upon closer inspection, nothing can describe the combination of disgust, envy, and intrigue which runs through his body. He never would have touched it if it weren’t for the fascinating utility suction cup on the end. Who wouldn’t want to stick it on a brick wall above your coworkers monitor?
"It was awesome! It was this fat, this thick and this long! Just dangling there!"
I guess I’ll never know what happened to my friends, only that I sent them to their putrid death. I still stand by my decision as an alternative to a TSA discovery or giving my father a reason to think I wasn’t an angel. Farewell, fleshy friends.
Solomonian 