BLACK RUBBER DUCK

Maybe it was your smile. Teeth just crooked enough to be distracting. Just yellow enough to cause one a moment’s pause. How the peppery tang of your breath was noticeable regardless of proximity.

Maybe it was the way that you punched me in the kidneys and insistently shouted “No!” when I asked you if you had been eating pizza that day.

Perhaps it was the confidence that you projected. Although you hadn’t met me before, you treated me as if we’d been married for years, barking orders and whittling away at my self-image. You didn’t even feel that you had to wear deodorant. That’s how comfortable you felt with me.

Now, I don’t usually do this. But I’m writing you to let you know that I’d really love to see you again.

I know the evening didn’t go as smoothly as it could have. I suppose it’s on me to take the blame for that. Things got off on the wrong foot as soon as we were kicked out of our second cab. I know that it was out of line for me to point out that, yet again, our cab driver was clearly a landed immigrant with a cordial manner and a firm grasp of the English language. It wasn’t my place to make note that both drivers were wearing baseball caps and most certainly not wearing “towels”, as you put it. I apologize for that. Maybe you were right. Perhaps they really are parasitic agents for a pagan death machine. I suppose I may not have significant background in these issues to have argued the point.

Although it became extremely clear that taxi cabs weren’t the way for us to travel, the opportunity to walk together to the restaurant was very pleasant. I think we really grew closer. We both learned a lot about you and about my ability to nod and act surprised or engaged. I’m really glad that you got to see that. I’m really proud of it.

I feel that things really started to turn around for us when we got to the restaurant. When our drinks came back a little bit late, you asked the waiter if he’d gotten “lost inside of one of your poofty friends’ assholes”, and I think we all shared a good moment there. While all of my drinks after that point seemed a little thicker than they should have, it was still pretty clever of you!

I don’t mind that you ordered an expensive crab platter and only wound up spooning up the garlic butter. Maybe you were nervous. It certainly seemed that way, as you pounded back Malibu rum cocktail after Malibu rum cocktail. Nerves. That had to have been the reason for the drinking. Don’t worry, I understand.

You really started to open up to me, I felt. I can pinpoint the moment that I really felt like you were letting me in. Around your seventh or eighth drink, you looked right into my eyes. Raising your hand and pointing your index finger right at my face, you said: “My mother… is a rotten cunt.” Your candid appraisal of your mother made me feel like you really trusted me. You couldn’t share this kind of intimate conversation with just any stranger… could you?

After I picked up the massive bill and you pocketed the tip that I had left for the waiter, you grabbed me by the tie and pulled me in the direction of the club playing loud dance music next door. It choked me a little bit and you got butter stains all over my tie, but your assertiveness really excited me!

I bought you a drink and you dashed off into the crowd on the dance floor, presumably to stake us out a good spot to cut a rug. It took me quite a while to find you, though, which is strange considering your distinctive mustard-yellow hair colour. When I finally did catch up with you, you were delivering CPR to a large, muscular choking victim just outside of the men’s washroom. Your compassion is incredibly attractive. I stopped for a moment and watched you stroke his bald head for a moment after he has started breathing normally again, comforting him.

The game of hide and seek that ensued for the rest of the evening was fun, but ultimately exhausting. I would constantly look for you, but only find you near the bar, where I would buy you a drink and then lose you again. After the dancehall cleared and the place was closing up, though, you became a lot easier to find. You were pretty stumbley at this point, but I would like to think that you would have put your arm around my waist even if you hadn’t been.

We got out into the street and you vomited onto my shoes. I started to say something comforting, but you immediately cut me off and insisted “I don’t vomit! I voe-mais!” I was slightly puzzled at first. I then realized that I had been right all along. You had been eating pizza that day.

When that car pulled up and you got in, I was a little bit disappointed that our night had come to an end. Obviously, you must have made arrangements for a ride to pick you up, although I didn’t catch his name and he didn’t seem to know yours. You grabbed onto my crotch and squeezed hard, while jamming your tongue down my throat. It was the slimiest moment of bliss I can recall from my last 26 years on this planet. And with that, you were gone.

I never expected to fall for a girl named Vonda. I certainly never expected to spend an entire week’s pay on a date. And I definitely wasn’t expecting this ferocious cold sore. But wasn’t it a wise man who once said “The greatest joys in life are those that are least expected”? Don’t ask me because I have no idea. The only thing I do know is that I would love to see you again.

You have my credit card.

When I get down about love, sometimes I just really have to remind myself of one thing: There are plenty of fish in the sea!

My mom told me this a long time ago when my bus driver wouldn’t be my date to the big dance and then she told me again at the dance when my bus driver showed up with my best friend. She just leaned in close while we were slow dancing and whispered in my ear that there are plenty of fish in the sea. These eight words, placed sequentially, still hold the same meaning to me now as they did when I was having an allergic reaction to both my mom’s hairspray and my blue polyester tuxedo.

I’m reminded that no matter how much you love someone, they will inevitably become bored of you and force you to do things that you find unsavory or morally objectionable, and then they will leave. And there will always, always be another one after that.

I’ve loved my share of women. Perhaps not as much as I’ve loved some other things. I don’t really think I’ve ever considered a woman to be “good enough for me” or “worthy”. That sounds harsh! Putting it into perspective, though, I really really love judo. And not one of my exes knew judo. What the hell!? By god, though. Did I ever love some of them almost enough!

Take Burn Ward Bonnie, for instance. Now there was a good listener. I would just go into her room and sit down and talk and she was always there to lend what was left of her ear. The reassuring sound of her ventilator, whooshing in and out, really made me feel like we were making a connection. She didn’t say much. Like I mentioned earlier, she was there to listen. When she did speak up, she didn’t even have to say real words, even if she could have. Her grunts and slightly anguished moans always seemed to echo exactly how I was feeling.

It was a whirlwind. Her parents didn’t approve. Neither did mine. Nor did the hospital administration. More than once I was told to “Leave that poor woman alone” or to “Get back to work”. But so magnetic was our attraction that I just couldn’t keep away. It became very exciting, both of us feeling like we were in some romantic and tragic Hollywood story! At least, I think that she felt that way too. She really didn’t have much of a range as far as facial expressions went.

I would hide my mop in some dark corner, late at night, and creep into her room. She wouldn’t see me come in, what with her fused-shut eyelids, but I knew that she could smell the mixture of my cologne and industrial sterilizing solution just as well as I could smell her own mixture of soothing ointments, excrement and small animal caught in car engine. As I approached her bed, I would always hear her heart monitor start to beep just a little faster. Sometimes I would just sit beside her and tell her about my day. Sometimes I would cuddle her and nuzzle her neck, listening to the delighted little “puhhhh” sounds that she would make.

One day… It all came to an end. She was just gone. I had come around lunch time, like I always did, to blow her secret kisses through the glass window of her room, playing it off as a sneeze whenever anyone would see me. I got to the window and she was gone. Bed made. Still surrounded by all of the nice gifts that her parents and family had given to her. To us.

When I had given her the ring, how was I to know? Sliding it down onto her right pinkie finger, (I didn’t think it would stay on the remenants of the ring finger, and I wanted to play it safe. Rings are expensive!) overcome with the joy of having heard her respond “huuuuuhhhhnnnn” to my question. I really didn’t see it coming, what happened. Look, I suppose I could have looked into getting a new ring. But like I said, rings are expensive. And I suppose I could have checked to see if it was “tarnished” or “rusted”. And I suppose that I could have thought through the prospect of putting a rusty ring onto a finger that was essentially just a skinless open wound. But I didn’t. Who thinks clearly when they are in love!? Who, I ask!?

If you had have been in my shoes, you would have done the same thing.

So, the septic shock - or whatever they said it was - ravaged what was left of her immune system and it ended just like it always does. She left me. Now, I’m not one to play the “blame game”, but honestly - what ever happened to being a fighter? As I was stuffing all of her gifts and other shit into my duffel bag, I was really heartbroken. Again. Plus, they had gotten rid of the body already so I couldn’t get the ring back. Double bummer.

Then, with a sigh, I brought myself to thinking about what my mother had said. “There are plenty of fish in the sea, son. Your bus driver is a whore.” And I felt better. In a way, Burn Ward Bonnie will always be a part of me. There is extensive black staining that remains on my teeth, lips and gums, and I really don’t expect it to ever come off.

There was a thump, and Billy woke up with a start. Heart racing, he fumbled around for the light switch. Where is it, he thought, becoming increasingly nervous. He could feel the presence of someone in the room. Or something. Naked, vulnerable, breathing rapidly, he found the bedside lamp and turned it on.

As his eyes adjusted to the dim glow of the lamp, his eyes were drawn from the floor upwards. They trailed up past two pink feet, three toes on each, veiled by a fringe of white fur. The fur continued up the body, as Billy’s eyes did, up to brown patches. As his eyes carressed the figure’s face and found their way up and along each oversized, floppy ear, they came to rest on the large brown eyes of his visitor.

“…Gizmo?” remarked Billy. “What are you doing? It’s so late!”

“B-i-i-i-lly-y-y”, Gizmo trilled excitedly, as he climbed up onto the bed next to him.

“Aw, Giz!” Billy whispered with a grin. He moved his hand onto the top of Gizmo’s soft, furry head and began to scratch. What a sensation!, he thought, as his palm made circles on the top of his little friend’s appreciative scalp.

Gizmo began to sing. He trilled his little Mogwai song, and Billy began to feel at ease. He closed his eyes and followed the melody, one which he has heard so many times before, but had perhaps never truly listened to. He felt a warmth growing in his stomach, travelling downward all the way to his toes.

Billy opened his eyes as he continued to work Gizmo’s furry head. Gizmo’s eyelids were fluttering with pleasure. Gingerly, Billy placed his thumb and forefinger on either side of Gizmo’s right ear and massaged it. Marvelling at it’s softness, he worked his way up and over the ridge of the humourously large protrusion, all the way to the tip, before working his way back down to trace circles around his furry companion’s lips with the tip of his finger.

Boy, Billy thought. Petting Barney sure never felt like this…

Overcome by his feelings, he trailed the tip of his finger down Gizmo’s velvety belly. He teased tiny nipples, hidden from sight by patches of white and brown. Gizmo cooed with pleasure and rocked his little head from side to side.

Feeling bold, Billy worked his way down towards the Mogwai’s most tender areas. Abruptly, Gizmo stopped cooing.

The little creature began to shriek wildly. The little limbs flailed as he screamed in pain.

“GIZMO!” Cried Billy. “What’s wrong?!”

Gizmo’s eyes bugged out and spun wildly. There was a loud popping noise as a small ball of fur erupted from the writhing mogwai’s nether regions. It was followed by another. And another.

Billy screamed.

“Billy! What is going on up here?!”

Billy’s father, Rand Peltzer burst into Billy’s room.

“Dad! I don’t know what happened! He just started going crazy!”

Randall looked at Gizmo, still in agony, and then around the room at the scattered balls of fur. He cast a worried gaze at his son, and his eyes narrowed when they stopped on Billy’s still very noticeable erection.

“Billy…” Rand said. “What have you done?! Didn’t you listen?! YOU CAN’T GET HIM WET!!!”

That looks a lot like splooge, huh?

This is the shplang blog. We will be working on getting it up and running in a more sophiticated way in the coming days and weeks, but for now, this is a post to encourage you to please send me lots and lots of money.

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Matt Blair is an object of desire for many.

2008 represent.