I was at the grocery store – the grocery store, I tell you – and I looked over at the car parked next to mine. It was covered in bird poop. But I barely noticed. It was packed, as if its driver was living in it. But I couldn’t have cared less. The back seat, on the other hand…
There were multiple bulging bags from “The Pleasure Chest,” a West Hollywood adult sex toys store. There were unbagged sex toys. There was a blow-up doll, for cry-eye, deflated and lifeless, lying atop the whole kaboodle. That back seat was packed, yo. I mean, where was the driver gonna put the danged groceries?
I wish I’d gotten a better photo, but to tell the truth, I was rushing to snap this one. I was a-skeered the car’s owner would catch me in the act and, well, I don’t know what.
Why did the mere sight of these contents make me want to button my blouse up to the neck? I’m no prude (and let’s just leave it at that). I think maybe I just don’t associate the Ralph’s parking lot with carnal accoutrements. Going forward, maybe I should.