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Blunt in FashionJack Rabbit Terror
an emily blunt rant

 

 

 

 

Oh, I wish I'd have said Jack Russell Terrier. Do you know what a Jack Rabbit is? I didn't either till recently when I had what my friend's call "a sexual intervention." After having way too many drinks I confided it has been a millennium since the clam's been dug, the flowers been pollinated, there's been a bear in the cave - since I had sex okay.

Shocked by my joke announcement that, "I may have to pay for sex." They went into action. I was so obviously kidding. But sex is extremely important to this lot and they neither found it funny nor, apparently, safe for my well-being.

Hey, I'm a sexual camel. When you are as picky as me…I get thousands times infinity squared to give up the gold but the guys I prefer to be asking for a horizontal tango are either dead, gay or otherwise unobtainable. This is the story of my life.

Back to the Jack Rabbit Terror. See while innocently sipping on a vodka martini at the forbidden Formosa a group of "friends" and I use that word in a tone read: "meddling kids" come in already half in the bag. Inevitably the subject goes immediately to sex, and in what can only be called nanoseconds, my lack of it. They said since I wont take any of their offerings of date material they stopped on the way and got my a special gift for Christmas…

A humongous vibrator called the Jack Rabbit. A vibrator? I laughed aloud. Jeeze, I hadn't actually felt alone till I looked at their beaming faces, joyous at their saving me from the meaningless nights of single abyssdom! I would have much preferred the new Austin Powers dvd I hinted to…

I faked appreciation then explained I am really not into "that." I'm no prude I just don't turn myself on. I enjoy the whole product - if you know what I mean - and I think that you do. They explained that's not the point. Then I was subjected to no less than ten self-gratification stories - from each. Oh, sure you think it sounds fun….but I assure you there are some stories friends just shouldn't share!

So this contraption is huge - that's fine. It is also the Mercedes SUV of phallic self-ticklers! It shimmies, thrusts, rotates, it has pearl-like beads in the center and it's florescent pink. I think it even streamed video...all in all very life like no? Quite frankly the damn thing doesn't need me! And I don't need it.

I gave it to the bartender. That's when they snapped! I guess it was expensive. They rustled it from him after about three more martinis and insisted I at least "give it a whirl!" Yech.

The drive home was creepy. I begged my driver to avoid collision…or at least if we were in a bad one let me throw the beast near her. If my mom ever saw this thing…

Thankfully I was unfolded at my door safe and sound - well safe. I ran inside avoiding eye contact with Pete my pesky neighbor - who is always "there." I practically catapulted myself into the elevator and kick boxed the floor button before he managed the foyer.

I ran down the hall like I had the only shipment of Ecstasy (no pun intended) at a palooza concert - now sweat formed on my brow. When I turned the key I remembered the dogs. Oh no. Bags this late meant human food treatski leftovers or "forgive me" toy-toys. Now our ritual was a dreadful dance of shame as I bulleted into the kitchen and managed to toss a few cookies into the bag to present as offerings to their royal heinesses. They were appeased and I slipped into the bedroom.

I drew the blinds and the drapes and lit a candle…I can do this. Jack was sitting erect on the end of the bed. Horror. The dogs slipped in, immediately noticed the toy on the bed and pounced. I laughed so hard I nearly puked. I grabbed my "date." And escaped to the bathroom.

I slammed the door and sat on the toilet to catch my breath. This was silly. Then I noticed the box. It wasn't in real English. Oh no. It had those classic Ameri-asian half sentences and looked as if the packaging were put together by a first season writer for Saturday Night Live. There was even a warranty! Hahaha. If the beast broke I would get a full refund or replacement or they would repair it. Choices! But they warned, " Be sure to send back the Jack Rabbet Vibraytor with out batteries and an explanation….err…explenahsion." I was laughing out loud. I couldn't do this. I decided to go microwave some popcorn and watch a film.

Jack? I threw him on the sill by the window - only to remember him days later as I walked by the building and noticed a shadow of a penis shaped object blaring from my bathroom window next to the shampoo collection. Pete must have had several hardy smirks before I noticed. Jack's now in a landfill somewhere terrorizing the seagulls.

Life.

 

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