The Rubber Letter

May 8, 2014

Dear Mom,

Do you remember when I was in college, you told me about the time you went to the pharmacy to buy condoms because for some reason you didn’t want Dad’s “pecker spitting in you” (I can’t remember exactly why because I blocked most of this story from my memory to preserve my sanity)? You said that since you had never bought condoms before you didn’t know what size to buy so you asked the pharmacist how to know which kind to get by asking, “So do they come in Large As a Bread Box or Small As a Pinky?” When he replied that they all pretty much are the same (except for the magnums) you nudged him and said, “I guess all men ARE created equal.”

Well, it reminded me of the time you found a condom in my coat pocket when I was in high school. You know the one. It was the one I wore to Germany when the Berlin wall was coming down. You were cleaning out the pockets because you were giving it to some poor people and pulled it out like a perverted Cracker Jack prize. Well, I realized that I never thanked you for not inflating it and putting it on my pillow because that’s the kind of shit you usually pull, so thank you for that.