Shiraz drunk off of my ass. But not before sending a parable to the woman I'm dating now, to teach her a fucking lesson she desperately needs to learn.

***

                She had a lollipop head; an enormous, perfectly spherical head that sat atop a limber, slim body with lanky, spindly arms and legs. But it wasn’t important, her tremendously disproportionate head that which maintained its own field of gravity. Important was the cruel, tragic deficiency that she carried within that gigantic head: she could not hold his hand.

His hands were softer than they should be. Veiny, to be sure, but softer than that of other men of his age. Not because he hadn’t abused them by laying brickwork – though he hadn’t – or because he had always made sure to open beer bottles with his shirt – though he had – but because he moisturized, daily, religiously, because that is what you do when you’re a vain motherfucker.

“Hold my hand,” he asked, feeling his own brow turning upward, knowing his eyes turn into the large half-moon eyes of a small puppy wallowing over an empty food dish.

“No! What’s the rush?”

She loved puppies. She loved old dogs who maintained a small size that which still categorized them as puppies, so long as they fit into her purse. That was her gauge: The Puppy-To-Purse Gauge. She ironically named her puppies diametrically opposite to their traits. A black dog would be named “Whitey.” A silent dog would be “Yappy.” A dog with equilateral triangular markings would be named “Isosceles Triangle Markings Dog.” She would name her puppies in the same manner as prison inmates nickname each other, like how the 300lbs motherfucker would inevitably be nicked, “Tiny.”

He loved large dogs; large, brown dogs with a looming presence that couldn’t be ignored. Dogs so large that their feces looked like that of a human. Dogs so enormous that they even sat on a toilet, read a newspaper, flushed. Dogs that would kiss back.

“Kiss me,” he asked, in a vein of desperation he never knew existed, to kiss her small mouth, with her sharp lips, that could never, ever wrap themselves around an adult-sized sandwich.

“No! What’s the rush?”

He gave up. He acquiesced. What’s the rush, he finally agreed, told himself. There’s all the time in the world.

The next day the Great Zombie Attack of 2010 struck. She died immediately, distracted by needing to remark “Ewww” at this corpse and “Ewww” at that corpse. A tattered, one-armed zombie had devoured her small, lollipop-stem of a neck in one thorough bite, severing her lollipop head from the rest of her lollipop body as a pack of cute zombie puppies chewed at her sharp, pointy lips.

He survived and found her body, stood over it and remarked, “That’s the rush, motherfucker!”

But she says this while she’s high. Really, really, high. Too high, you could say, because it’s exactly what the paramedics said before strapping her into a gurney and delivering her here to the 7th floor mental ward of St. Joseph’s Health Centre. Out on the porch of a vacant house, they gave her a look over and said, to paraphrase, “You, sweetheart, are too high to be left here. You are in fact so tremendously too high that we will baby talk you in order to keep you calm, and then suddenly strap your limbs into this gurney and take you to a tremendously old hospital on the west end of the city that was once a fort that protected our city at the shore. There are concrete walls that have been reinforced many times over and are inescapable – although you wouldn’t even make it past the Filipino night-shift nurse, anyway – and so that is how too high you are, that we’re bringing you to a tremendously terrible place such as this.”

I don’t believe her, but I choose to believe her, because that’s what you do when you’re in love with a girl who never loved you back: you force yourself to believe the things she says when she’s too high, you distort reality to what you need it to be. After weeks of methodically plotting the impossible – how am I going to get her to love me? – she just handed it to me on a fucking platter. Of course I’m going to believe it.

“And remember: this Tuesday, October 14th, Tom Cruise is going to destroy the planet.”

I choose to believe this, too, for the same reasons as the I Love You thing. I can’t be a hypocrite; if I want to believe the good, I have to also believe the bad, and, more apt, any other inane monkey shit that spills from her mouth. Although I see the flawed logic behind this, and that when a girl says, “I love you,” followed by a doomsday premonition involving a short celebrity with a perfectly symmetrical face and a creepy director who isn’t dead yet, the odds are good that the latter half of the speech effectively voids the former.

Oh, right. “I know this because the ghost of Tim Burton told me so,” she continues.

But, like when you watch a movie or play a video game, you suspend reality and embed yourself into the storyline. Otherwise, life really is just about molecules arbitrarily bumping into each other. Meaningless, until you add the meaning yourself. So I believe it all, because I’m really not doing anything interesting for the rest of the week.

Two things I learned on a recent trip to San Francisco:

ONE:
Schick Intuition is the most tremendous pubic-area shaving apparatus I have ever used. It is like taking a white, furry rabbit and rubbing it onto your nether regions and magically – through the power of rainbows, possibly – eradicating all of your unwanted curlies. Because of its self-lathering feature (aloe! Vitamin E!), it doesn’t even feel like you’re shaving, but like you’re fake-shaving, like when you were a 7-year old boy watching your dad shave his pubes over the toilet and you’d sit there in the corner of the washroom with a fake Fisher-Price pube-shaver, following his movements and pretending you were ten years hairier.

(This was a review unit found on the bed in my hotel room, not personally purchased, although the marketing geniuses at Schick were correct in assuming that even men would become so enamored with this product that they would be forced against their better judgment to personally purchase this pink contraption solely constructed for women’s legs for years to come, and with it a package of tampons to further cement the red herring that I’m buying it for my girlfriend, god, she makes me run these fucking errands all the time. Christ, I am a wicked-awesome boyfriend.)

TWO:
Fleshlight? Really?

We were browsing through a sex shop in the Mission where a friend was looking for a portable, subtle vibrator that she could take on her travels and that wouldn’t alert customs to think that it was a bomb or, even more tragic, to snicker at her. We browsed for an embarrassing amount of time, and in two visits (punctuated with my gleeful visit to Dave Eggers’ Pirate Store), enough for me to realize that, holy shit, I masturbate all of the time! Why don’t I have a device that will both save time and elevate my masturbatory experience?  And now I do. Or did, before I tossed it into the recycling bin in half a session after deducing that I couldn’t craigslist the $100 fucker.

Why The Fleshlight Is A Piece Of Fucking Shit:
1:  The way it works is like this: you warm it up in a sink of warm – not hot – water, lube it up, insert your penis, extract your penis, lube it up, insert your penis, extract your penis, lube it up, repeat. The lubricant soaks through the rubber and collects somewhere within the handle (I’m supposing, because I refused to look before tossing it). It’s very much unlike a youthful, perky vagina that is always self-lubing and more akin to having intercourse with a dehydrated octogenarian (supposing, again), or, more aptly, like you’re FUCKING A RUBBER VAGINA (sadly, I’m not supposing this one anymore).

2: Besides the continual extraction of your penis for lubrication obligations (lubrigations?), to simulate sex you lie on your back, insert your penis, and then pump the Fleshlight in a jacking-off motion. So really, it’s still jacking off in the same old-fashioned way, although it takes more time and effort when you count the amount of Lube Duty involved. Dig? It takes more time and effort. It’s not at all automated or handsfree. And, also, you are FUCKING A RUBBER VAGINA.

3: Now to counter the last argument, the website suggests that you place the Fleshlight under your mattress so that the handle is sturdily buried. Then you slide to your knees and onto the floor, grab a hold of the top of your mattress, insert your penis into the Fleshlight, and hammer away. Sure, this takes care of the problematic methodology of redundantly jacking off and teeters you closer to the hip-thrusting action of authentic sex, but once in awhile (every 3 seconds or so) you will pop out of your masturbatory euphoria and realize – and there’s no denying or repressing this, you will in fact be very, very aware – that you are now FUCKING A MATTRESS.

4:  The website also suggests an alternate: “The "shoe method" is a style of hands-free Fleshlighting. Stick the narrow end of the Fleshlight into a shoe, on a flat surface. [And then fuck it.]”  I haven’t tried this, but I’d imagine this would feel only sort of like a vagina and even more like you’re FUCKING A GODDAMN SHOE NOW, YOU SICK FUCK.

5:  No boobs to grab or throats to choke.

6: When capped, it looks like a flashlight, natch. This might’ve been a Eureka, Q-of-James-Bond-lore moment for the engineers, but I suspect it was more along the vein of, “This sort of looks like a flashlight, let’s just roll with that. Who’s up for Counterstrike?” I live in a turn-of-the-century (read: run down) joint in the Annex that, while looks awesomely pretentious from the outside, is prone to black outs. Pathetically, in my low-rent existence, a flashlight isn’t a safety measure used in rare emergencies as it is a necessity used monthly to swap out fuses and toggle breaker switches.

Inevitably, in an urgent, frequent, highly irritating moment of need of artificial light, I, or an incredibly beautiful and naked woman in my bed (with bangs), will instead grab the Fleshlight, point it at the fuse box, notice no beam of light, flip it over, and stare right into the mouth of a rubber vagina instead of a burnt-out bulb. Neither of us would be startled; it’d be one of those moments where we’d sigh heavily, slumped over, and I’d say, “Sorry, it’s just my fucking rubber vagina again,” like our numbers didn’t come up in the lottery.

If they’re going to disguise it as a rarely-used piece of safety equipment, they need to go all the way and fashion it as a defibrillator.

But then you’d be FUCKING A DIFBRILLATOR.

7: Asian genitalia are brown, assholes.