In my life, I've probably spent too much time thinking about what I'd do in the event of an apocalyptic event that left the land lawless. I'm not sure why. I think about it on my own, and I involve friends. Once, I engaged mi amigo Joel in an hours-long discussion of the topic that ended in an argument over whether Andy, a mutual friend, was stable enough to be left alive. We never came to a conclusion, as I recall, but it helped pass time on a drive from Pittsburgh to the Detroit area.

For the record, I've changed my position on Andy. We'd need him because he can fix cars.

In my hypothetical apocalypses, none of my friends perish. Nothing of consequence is ever really damaged. There just wouldn't be as many people around, I could drive whatever kind of car tickles my apocalyptic fancy, and I wouldn't have a job.

Two things happened this weekend that got me thinking about it again.

First, I went to see 28 Days Later. It wasn't what I expected, but I enjoyed it. Of course, I spent much of my time questioning the uninfected characters' choice of transportation, weaponry, and clothing. The black girl's machete and haircut were sufficiently post-apocalyptic for me, and I thought there was potential in the medically-necessary demi-Mohawk the main character wore in the beginning of the film, but overall I found it to fall far short of the standard set by Mad Max. At least in terms of accessories. If there's one thing the post-apocalyptic man needs, it's a single shoulder pad. Mine would be on the left side.

The second thing that happened this weekend was my discovery of The Fister. The Fister is what you might imagine -- a life-size latex arm, beginning at the elbow and ending in a genderless fist. It's what you'd call a marital aid at the dinner table and an unholy implement of unspeakable sin elsewhere. I didn't discover The Fister in the throes of passion or during a wonderful and terrible practical joke involving a disconnected light switch, a toilet, and Ex-Lax brownies. Instead, I was in the market for some of those fancy souvenir marijuana pipe screens to replace the toddler-aged and tar-impacted souvenir marijuana pipe screen too-long jammed into my souvenir marijuana pipe.

I was accompanied by a friend to the Belmont and Clark area of Chicago -- a neighborhood that's not much more than a city-block-in-diameter Spencer Gifts. After a close-call with some used hats and lice at a thrift store, we stopped into a lovely little boutique called Egor's Dungeon. Egor's not only sells souvenir marijuana-smoking devices and supplies, but also dilrods, dildoes, ramrods, vibrators, buttplugs, lovecorks, pocket rockets, pocket pussies, lovedolls, and all manner of other adult novelties. It's like a five and dime, where the five is the number of D batteries it'll take and dime is as in bag.

Now, I've never owned a sex/head shoppe. I know, I know. This is a shock to some of you, but I haven't. If I did, however, I think I'd do my best to keep the two inventories separated. I've heard that the type of people who shop for souvenir marijuana-smoking sundries tend to point and giggle, and I've heard that the type of people who shop for dildoes tend to wear fake moustaches and pay in cash. It would seem to me that, if I sold to both markets, I'd probably put up a divider or something.

There's no such rationale at Egor's. The rolling papers and souvenir pipes are in the glass counter toward the front door -- a sensible choice. The porn videos are toward the back, which I also support. But the dildoes and dildo-family of products was on a wall rack right behind the cash register, with The Fister front and center. If I'm in the market for The Fister, I'm sure going to feel funny about having to ask the shop clerk across the heads of everyone standing in line to check out.

Later that day, I decided that in the event of an apocalypse, I'd carry The Fister as a weapon. Swing that thing at somebody, and I bet it'd hurt like a motherfucker.

Analogcabin @ 1:46 PM
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