Fake Doggie Poo
You know, I couldn’t find my socks this morning.
I mean, I can’t find my socks most mornings. I only really have three pairs. And two are usually too fungally to reuse.
But this morning, after I finished my ritual scratching of the groin, I was stumbling around trying to find my socks. I tripped over my Colecovision and nearly slipped on a pile of cardboard thingies from the backs of Twinkie packages. They smelled delightful.
Then I accidentally knocked over a plate of Trader Joes Joe-Joe cookies, almost cracking my original vintage Buzzcocks framed poster. Not wanting to do that, and now twirling like Buster Keaton, I stepped back, slipping on my Tron laserdisc and crashed into my dresser, knocking over three still half-filled bottles of Mad Dog left over from the previous night’s festivities of awkward female groping.
I fell on the floor. I could now see under my bed.
There it was. My fake doggie poo. One of the first novelty items my parents had bought me in the early 1980s.
I sniffed it. It smelled like old rubber.
Hence, Like a Virgin.
Yup. I’m on a major sugar rush.
