Even worse,” Barstock continued, “there’s this huge picture of me standing in front of it with Reba. ‘Bout an hour later, my ex old lady sends this nasty email demanding to know why I’m spending all my money at a titty bar instead of giving her more alimony. And I was like, what the hell are you on about, woman? That’s when I learned Google had posted the porno shop on my Google Profile, my Google Maps and my Google Latitude. Then stupid Google+ invited everyone in my circles to join me at The Rusty Bush Erotic Bookshoppe. Jesus H. Tap-dancing Christ!
It’s like the old days. Like when Sheena Easton would come on the radio on Saturday morning while you were cleaning the bathroom and all you could think about was how many meanings “strut” might have, given the context, and suddenly this phone would ring and you’d freak out and run to pick it up, hoping against hope that it was that girl Tara from the pool, but then your boogery sister got there first and answered in the boogeriest way ever and even if it was Tara calling, your chances with her were ruined now and your sister didn’t even care and by the time you got back to the bathroom, the dog was drinking Comet water from the toilet bowl and the radio was playing some stupid Rick Springfield song and from then on, that song would always remind you of the smell in the emergency room at the animal hospital. Best. Phone. Ever.