The Crazy Rants of Samantha Burns

Contributed by Aprosexic

Mindlessly awaiting my turn recently in the barbers, I recalled a queue-related incident which this medium makes it a little easier to share.

You’ll understand.

And your gender will determine your reaction…

Some years ago, my beloved was temporarily between two regimes of contraception and I was advised to ‘take alternative precautions’.

So, a nostalgic pilgrimage to the chemists then, where a plethora of old ladies had swarmed, to get prescriptions filled, each discussing several ailments with the very patient pharmacist etc. In my lunch hour.

Nearing the head of the queue, I resolved to avoid further and future wastes of my valuable time by buying more than the usual ‘packet of 3’. Do you have that euphemism where you are? Purchase of said ‘po3’ generally presages an extra-ordinary bout of sexual congress?

They’re now known as condoms, but I’ve never thought about living in one. Ah, no, sorry, that’s condos, isn’t it?

And so, eventually arriving at the counter, I manfully demanded a box of Durex.

“What size?� asked the harridan assistant.

“I. Er. Um. I. Um.�

She let me sweat.

Hours passed.

Someone behind me muttered “C’mon big boy, I’m on me lunch hour�.

“What size box? 25, 50?� she eventually offered. As if there could have been any other answer!

“Oh, 25 is fine� I gushed. “please, take all of this money, and keep the change�.

I legged it. I still redden thinking about it.

This article contributed by Aprosexic