Tuesday, January 30, 2007

So there I was, driving around town--which wasn't especially pleasant, given the rain and the cold and the weird pain I get in my ass when I sit on my wallet for too long--and a song came on the radio, and for the first time in, I dunno, 20-some-odd years I heard the lyrics. And what I heard for the first time was:

She had a pocket full of horses--Trojans, some of them used.

And of course I know the line, I can sing it in my sleep. I even remember the video and how very "video" it looked. But unlike the rest of America--nay, the world--I'd never processed what Mr. Minneapolis was saying. And when I finally did, today at 2:15pm, after finishing a rare meal of fast food--not rare because I hate fast food, but rare because stupid, corporate, stinko fast food restaurants have been the last to open here in still-ravaged New Orleans--I blanched and laughed and belched all at the same time. Because, really, what kind of girl carries around used condoms? In her pocket? And shows them off? To dates?

• Psycho bitches?

• Amateur geneticists?

• Lesbians too poor to visit the sperm bank?

• Beauty-obsessed women looking for the Next Big Thing in skincare?

• Finicky prostitutes?

• Recycling enthusiasts?

• Atkins fanatics who sometimes need a snack in the middle of the afternoon?

• Drag queens?

So today, when I at last saw Prince's date in my mind's eye--some girl with a Toni Home Perm pulling over to the side of the road, thrusting her ass in the air so she can squeeze a hand into the front pocket of her tight, acid-washed jeans and pull out a handful of foil-wrapped contraceptives and a few disheveled, lint-flaked latex receptacles with semen-filled reservoir tips--I kinda swerved and almost ran a Chrysler Pacifica off the road. Which would've been okay because those cars give me the creeps anyway.

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