"I love you," she says then pushing her good female lips onto my face. 

"I appreciate that," I say. 

Hurricanes vacuum up a tremendous amount of debris eventually dropping items great distances from where they were originally lifted.

"The day after Hurricane Andrew (1992) I found two dildos, a pair of brass knuckles and a half drank Coca-Cola bottle in my front yard," I say.

I wouldn't normally use the word dildo (usually I'd say vibrator), but finding two vibrators on your property doesn't sound as good as finding two dildos in your front yard.

"Really?" she says.  "Two dildos?"  She has stopped taping and is looking at me.

"One of them had markings on it," I say.  I'm wondering why she didn't have an interest in the Coca-Cola or the brass knuckles.

"You found a dildo in your front yard?" she says.  I like they way she says dildo and I'm feeling something.

"Dildos," I say. "I found two dildos in my front yard."

"What kind of markings?" she says.  Her nipples are pressing through her Kerry Is So Very tee shirt so I figure that either Hurricane Charley has got her scared or the dildo discovery story has got her turned on.

"Not hieroglyphics or anything mysterious like that," I say.  "Just a couple of lines made with a pen."

I deduced long ago that the lines inked onto the dildo were simple measurements relating to distance.  Somewhere in south Florida there was a woman (or man) wanting to know the maximum depth of whatever hole the dildo was pushed into.  They wanted a reference. A depth chart.  Hole number one could handle eight inches but not nine.  Hole number two ten inches but not eleven.  It's about limitations.

"You touched those things?" she says.  "You actually picked them up?"

"Two gigantic extremely lifelike dildos simply lying in my front yard would have made the neighbors really suspicious of me," I say.

"What were the markings?" she says.

Casually I say:

"Whoever drew the lines on the dildo was wanting to know how many inches of whatever they could shove into any particular bodily orifice."

After a pause she says:

"You found a dildo that doubled as a measuring stick?"

"Go figure," I say.

After another longer pause she says:

"Once after a hurricane my neighbor found a La-Z-Boy chair in his backyard." 

"A genuine La-Z-Boy?" I say.

"There was a magazine rack attached to it and magazines were still in it."

"What kind of magazines?" I say.

"They weren't Hump magazine if that's what you're hoping," she says then pulling two feet (60 centimeters) of duct tape off the roll then pushing it onto another window.

"What did your neighbor do with it?" I say.

"He uses it," she says.  "I believe it was their Alamo model."

"I get two used dildos and your neighbor gets a thousand dollar chair?" I say.

"Maybe you'll get a La-Z-Boy when the next hurricane comes," she says.  "Their Riley model is fabulous."

"Maybe," I say.


The power went out and while the power was out I asked her if she thought there were more dildos (like like the ones I found in '92) lying about after other hurricanes.  "Probably thousands," she said. 

At some point during the night I imagined a large spinning funnel cloud chocked full of dildos and the dildos were being spat out at high speeds and in all directions to shocked recipients everywhere.

Eventually my date asked me what I did with the two vibrators I found in my front yard:

"I put them inside the cardboard tubes that you'd find inside a roll of paper towels," I said.  "I wrapped them up real nice and I told my ex that I ordered them in the mail especially for her."


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