POSTMAN, PLEASE BRING ME SOME PORN!
When I go down to the mailbox, I know there's going to be one of three things inside. A bill; or several of them, but they are all destined for the same place - my kitchen table. (Where they will stay unopened, of course.)Then there are the ads, which go straight into the trash. It seems like Columbia House and the last girl I liked have one thing in common: the more you ignore a thing, the more it chases you.
And then there's porn. (And, not coincidentally, the one bill that's been paid already.) The porn just shows up, man. Believe me. But why dispute the credit card bill when you're getting something decent. (Or indecent, if you really want to split hairs.)
I hear the gate rattle closed. The cat pricks up his ears and raises his head. I grab my shoes....
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