True Story:

I do enjoy spending time with Happy Apple. She's a great friend, she cracks me up, and we do seem to get into some crazy adventures. In fact, she has a knack for crazy adventures which I don't quite understand. I've seen her pick around fifteen four leaf clovers in less than twenty minutes. I've had crazy hipsters come up to us and start talking about Diana Ross while we backed away slowly, not making eye contact. And I've had semi homeless men showing us their DVD collections on the bus.

And this has all happened in the last month or so.

But there was a real interesting one last week.

We were hanging out with her roommate, who was trying to buy a birthday present for a gay friend of his. Naturally, we went to a sex shop on Douglas Street. Happy Apple and I kind of just browsed nonchalantly while her roommate excitedly went from shelf to shelf, talking about dildoes. Which was funny to listen to, because he was talking about sex toys in the exact same way some men talk about cars, or sports, or, say, guitars.

I didn't know it, but there's a lot that goes into making dildoes, and there's a lot that seperates them. I kind of just figured you made it about eight inches long, painted it black, and called it a day. But nope. There's a lot more to it than that, apparently.

Happy Apple and I just looked at post cards and made oral sex jokes. Because that's how we roll. We're very much WASPs, and that means being slightly uncomfortable around anal beads. So we make jokes.

Anyways, we were chatting with the owner, and had finished making our purchases (I bought a few postcards with the Beatles on them - nothing kinky!), when the door opened and this guy stepped in carrying around twenty bags. He had a shaven head and cratered skin, and looked for all intents and purposes like an extra from Trainspotting. He was kind of twitchy, and he walked over to the BDSM stuff and started breathing heavily while looking at whips and face masks. Real heavily.

The three of us were about to leave. "Please stay around for a few minutes" the woman asked us really quietly, fear in her eyes.

Happy Apple and her roommate left anyway. I had to chase them down, and after only about two seconds, we realized they hadn't heard her. But we all agreed it was the right thing to do to go back there and keep this woman company while Cracky McGee got all asthmatic over leather panties. It was like one of the last scenes from The Magnificent Seven, where they decide to go back into the town and blow shit up. Only, um, there were three of us instead of seven. And we weren't going back to a gunfight that would kill us all. And we weren't cowboys.

Okay, it was nothing like the Magnificent Seven. Shut up.

When we steped back in, he was wandering over the store, breathing heavily and getting more and more agitated. Happy Apple and I started rummaging through a sex book written by Mel from Flight of the Conchords (!?), while I found myself wondering what the hell I'd do if he started tweaking out or something. I think my plan was something like "throw that butt plug at his face and run" or something to that effect.

He continued to wander, tweaked out on godknowswhat. And then, after realizing we were not leaving, he scowled at us, grabbed his bajillion bags, and left. The owner came over and thanked us profusely, saying how magnificent the seven three of us were for sticking around.

Then we spent a few minutes talking about how Victoria is getting steadily weirder. I have to say, a sex shop that has a penny-candy style set up filled with flavoured and coloured condoms is an odd place to have a "the world is getting crazier" conversation. It's be like listening to punk rock at a tea party - there is no real reason why it shouldn't happen, but one could imagine it's not a frequent occurence.

I think, pretty soon, the city is going to be filled entirely with homeless people and drug addicts. I'm not sure, realistically, how this could happen, but it seems to be on the horizon. It'll be like Mad Max... only without the anti-semites.

Happy Apple shrugged the entire event off, and only an hour later she had almost completely forgotten about it until I reminded her just how strange it had all been. I think she's developed a tolerance for strangeness. Which makes me wonder:

What does that say about me?

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