I think about dying in car wrecks all of the time, and this is the way I think about it: How will they know what music was on the radio when my ticket was punched? My fans will demand accuracy when the movie version of my life is screened. If the correct song isn't playing during that key screeching tire/ smashed windshield/ flaming death sequence, there will be rioting in the streets, COUNT ON IT. Will the medics on duty recover my stereo for the sake of history? For the sake of HUMANITY?
I did a lot of thinking about this over the weekend, as Curvacia and I took an interstate road trip to attend a glamorous wedding reception. Our road trips usually involve intrigue, adventure, and a healthy amount of thrift store pillaging, but there wasn't much time for any of that this time around-- we were too busy celebrating, so fahgeddaboutit.
I did, however, manage to return home (alive!) with this little gem in my pocket:
This book promptly filled a gap in the shelf next to another group of filthy paperbacks that we recently acquired-- two of our good friends came into possession of a giant box of porn and were kind enough to let us have our pick of the spoils. It's a good feeling to be recognized among the ranks of elite pornography connoisseurs in the town-- membership definitely has its privileges, as the following titles so aptly demonstrate:
The flip side to BATTLE OF THE BOOBS is a real gem-- the ad for some call sex line, starring MINDY... who apparently waits to take your call on a floor-model recliner in the furniture section of her local SEARS!