Personal mail
The latest envelope sent to Ruddy Ruddy is notably blank on its exterior surfaces, with no return address listed. Probably another little something from a collection agency trying not to tip its hand, I'll bet.
Ripping it open, I notice that it's curiously empty. The only thing I see at first glance is just a very small, slim, folded-up pamphlet. I unfold it, seeing the word natural superimposed over a picture of some guy nuzzling a woman. Inside, the pamphlet begins its pitch:
Personal ... lubricant? Oh, dear. Sure enough, there's a tiny sample in the envelope containing just about enough for one test drive.
Come to think of it, that sample tube is actually the right size and shape to be smoked.
What should I do about this? Well, it occurs to me that this might be a good time to call that one old girlfriend from university -- the artist who was always high as a kite.
Next, I'll have to call up O'My and ask them exactly how high one has to be to put the sound of a bullfight in the Romantic Ambiance section of the "Great Turn-ons" page of one's website.
Then I'll read the sample page of erotica (or as they quaintly call it, "romantic story") that appears on the same page and try to decide whether it's hotter than the Harlequin Blaze novels that were sent to Ruddy Ruddy. (It's hard to say. The presence of a "mysterious ranch-hand" is encouraging, but I can't decide whether the protagonist, Crystal, is so named because she's a hippie or just white trash.)
After that, I'll have to ask my vegetarian, Native American housemate why she just stole the steak that I'm cooking, put it in a bowl, and hid it in a kitchen cupboard. She and her longhaired boyfriend are clearly in league with the hippies. (The joke's on her, though -- she removed it from the stove at just the right time, leaving it a paragon of medium-rare deliciousness.)
Then after that I'll ... I dunno. Probably get some tacos, I guess. I could really go for some of those. Maybe listen to some Phish, too. And I should write down down of this cool shit that this dog just told me. Like, what if the whole world and the whole galaxy is just like one atom in part of, like a grain of sand on a beach in some huge world in some unimaginably vast galaxy? And what if that galaxy is just....
Hey, this sample tube is kind of torn a bit. What's all this slippery shit all over my fingers ... soaking into my skin? Oh yeah -- hemp oil.
Oh no.
Ah, screw it, I'm going to sleep.
Ripping it open, I notice that it's curiously empty. The only thing I see at first glance is just a very small, slim, folded-up pamphlet. I unfold it, seeing the word natural superimposed over a picture of some guy nuzzling a woman. Inside, the pamphlet begins its pitch:
O'MY Products Inc. would like to introduce you to a unique personal lubricant made especially for men and women who are proactive about health, wellness and pleasure.
Personal ... lubricant? Oh, dear. Sure enough, there's a tiny sample in the envelope containing just about enough for one test drive.
O'My is the first all-natural product to offer the ingredients Ginseng and Guarana which enhance pleasure without the stringy performance of many other lubricants.Ginseng ... guarana ... it sounds like a Chinese version of Red Bull that slips down exceedingly smooth and easy.
The inclusion of Hemp Oil provides excellent moisturizing properties to our formula. Hemp is known to discourage yeast, bacteria and fungus growth. In keeping with our goal of providing a high quality personal lubricant that is all natural, O'My has added no scent or colour to its products and does not participate in any animal testing.Free love ... kindness to animals ... all-natural ingredients ... hemp? The bit about discouraging fungal growth or strong scents gives me pause, but a quick check of the Contact Us page on O'My's website confirms it: They're operating out of North Vancouver, British Columbia. Sure enough, we're dealing with a raging outbreak of hippies.
Come to think of it, that sample tube is actually the right size and shape to be smoked.
What should I do about this? Well, it occurs to me that this might be a good time to call that one old girlfriend from university -- the artist who was always high as a kite.
Next, I'll have to call up O'My and ask them exactly how high one has to be to put the sound of a bullfight in the Romantic Ambiance section of the "Great Turn-ons" page of one's website.
Then I'll read the sample page of erotica (or as they quaintly call it, "romantic story") that appears on the same page and try to decide whether it's hotter than the Harlequin Blaze novels that were sent to Ruddy Ruddy. (It's hard to say. The presence of a "mysterious ranch-hand" is encouraging, but I can't decide whether the protagonist, Crystal, is so named because she's a hippie or just white trash.)
After that, I'll have to ask my vegetarian, Native American housemate why she just stole the steak that I'm cooking, put it in a bowl, and hid it in a kitchen cupboard. She and her longhaired boyfriend are clearly in league with the hippies. (The joke's on her, though -- she removed it from the stove at just the right time, leaving it a paragon of medium-rare deliciousness.)
Then after that I'll ... I dunno. Probably get some tacos, I guess. I could really go for some of those. Maybe listen to some Phish, too. And I should write down down of this cool shit that this dog just told me. Like, what if the whole world and the whole galaxy is just like one atom in part of, like a grain of sand on a beach in some huge world in some unimaginably vast galaxy? And what if that galaxy is just....
Hey, this sample tube is kind of torn a bit. What's all this slippery shit all over my fingers ... soaking into my skin? Oh yeah -- hemp oil.
Oh no.
Ah, screw it, I'm going to sleep.
2 Comments:
I skipped right to the erotica.
- Gloria
I don't believe most of this story. I'm pretty sure that you opened the envelope, saw that it was a lubricant, and went to a private spot to whip off a batch.
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