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 Jack
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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