the immorality of balloons

... you know. I have this stash of condoms at home - a box of chocolate flavoured rubbers and a handful of Durex rubbers in colourful foil casings - stuff that I nicked from a fashion party some months back.

Yeah, yeah, yeah. If you're going to be all Moral Police on me, fine. I didn't nick them OK. The stuff was just sitting around in glass bowls on the coffee tables.

They were party favours OK. Party favours. And it was a fashion party OK. Not some horrific orgy party where you swap partners and hump the furniture. Or pretend to be a lamp stand.

So anyway... the rubbers. They're hiding in this shoe box at home and I don't know what the fuck I'm gonna do with them. I mean, sure, I know what to use them for but condoms, they're like a fucking party dress. You don't wear a party dress to work. You don't wear a party dress to the supermarket. You fucking wear a fucking party dress only when you've the fucking occassion for it and fucking hell, I don't have a fucking use for those fucking useless condoms because I fucking don't have a fucking partner to slide those slippery rubbrs on and fuck it all to hell!!!!!!!!! HAVE A HAPPY FUCK DAY TO ALL YOU FUCKERS WHO HAVE A FUCK TO FUCK.

There, the fury is unleashed. Now on to more important matters. I can do other things with my assortment of condoms. I can:
a. Puncture them with needles and then leave them lying around on certain people's desks in the office and hope that the best kind of shit happens to them.
b. Inflate the condoms by filling them up with strawberry jell-o. Then fling them onto random passerbys.
c. Chew on them when I get bored.
d. Try to fit my cat into one.
e. Dispose a condom in the office lavatory, no flushing, and wait for horrific reactions and rumours to run wild.
f. Nail a condom on my boss' office door.