Such A Deal

I was in my local drugstore today, picking up my usual sundries--chocolate chip cookies, lip balm, and a copy of National Employment Weekly--when I noticed a box labeled "50% Off" near the checkout line. Being the perspicacious, penny-pinching consumer I am, I took a peek in the box, hoping to find some Rogaine, but expecting to see nothing but soon-to-be outdated Halloween trinkets. Lo and behold, though, what did I see: nothing but boxes of condoms.

Now I have no problem buying irregular products like shirts, shoes, or firearms, but condoms? Just what is an irregular condom?

I bask in being able to outwit retailers and avoid paying full-price for many products, but something tells me I don't want to buy a half-price condom. Would you? I can't imagine people running home to their lovers' arms and crowing, "Look what I got for half-price, honey!" Talk about a headache inducer.

The proverbial cockiness of a man putting a condom in his wallet in preparation for a night on the town has to be negatively affected when that condom is half-priced, I should think. "Well, I'm kinda feeling lucky tonight." Or, "I don't know, my horoscope wasn't too promising today, so I think I'll go with the half-price one, just in case."

Does the threshold of one's promiscuity drop when one is carrying a half-price condom? I mean, if I'm playing golf and am faced with the choice of trying to hit a perfect shot over 200 yards of water or playing safe by laying up, a lot of the decision depends on what type of ball I'm playing. If I'm playing a cut up Kro-Flite special I stole from my buddy's shag bag, what the hell, I let it rip. But if I'm playing one of my new Titleist Pro-V's, well then, I'm not risking it. You know what I'm saying?

Maybe half-priced condoms are kind of like a gambler's sale item. Or for people who are totally ambivalent about having children. Perhaps, though, it's simply a matter of timing: maybe the condoms are nearly at their expiration date. "Guaranteed until midnight Thursday!" If so, the purchasers of such bargains must be some pretty hot-to-trot kind of people.

Could this particular brand of condoms have been blackballed for some reason? Maybe they were the subject of a Stone Phillips report on Dateline. I picture a distraught couple, with gaggles of kids crawling all over them, complaining, "We've used these condoms for years. They simply don't work, Stone."

Then I thought that the sale might have nothing to do with the specific condoms themselves. Maybe the owner of the store was just in a John Lennon mood, trying in his own small way to promulgate the old "make love, not war" sentiment. Or maybe the sale meant my neighborhood was simply a pretty unlively, unsensual place. I raced over to the adult diaper section and sure enough, the racks were bare--a bad sign indeed.

I don't know. But the thought of bargain basement condoms had my mind reeling; I needed an answer. So I walked up to the cashier behind the register, who had the look of a warden in a women's maximum security prison. I felt like I was buying my first athletic supporter.

"Hey," I barked, "what's the deal with all the cheap condoms?"

She looked at me like she was scanning her memory for the last time she noticed the most wanted pictures at the post office. "What?" She was stalling for time, I could tell.

"That box of reduced, er, half-off, er, inexpensive condoms. What gives?"

With a harsh scowl she snapped, "We're no longer carrying those items."

Wham. Her words had the effect of the mother of all mothers nixing any talk of staying up late. I was cowed. Hanging my head in shame, I shuffled out of the store, sans sundries.

Could things be that depressed, I wondered. Out on the street I passed a nice looking woman. "Hi, how ya doin'?"

"Forget it, buster," she sighed apathetically as she threw her scarf over her face. I guess it's going to be one tough winter ahead of us in Cleveland.

The Spinners-Rubberband Man