“Would you rather have 5ml of urine dribble involuntarily from your cock every five minutes for a year, or eat a used tampon a month?”
“Can I cook the tampon?” I was sure there’d be a sauce to complement.
“Don’t be an idiot, of course you can’t cook the tampon.” Smiling now. A handsome man, even in the throws of a bender.
“Ok – and can I wear a nappy?”
“Dude, no.”
“So, if I take the urine scenario, right, then that would happen 12 times an hour.”
“Like you’re swimming.”
Like I’m swimming? Don’t think too much on it. Not on the swimming. Answer him.
“12 times an hour, for 24 hours… for 365 days…. That’s gotta be over 100,000 times.” I’m chuffed with my speedy addition.
“Or 12 tampons. 100,000 dribbles of piss, or 12 tampons.”
“Bring on the tampons. We’ll make it an event, you know?”
He did know. When the question swung his way, he took the tampons without hesitation. I’d done all the speculating.
Our Would You Rather game starts to teeter on the edge of absurdity, so we move on.
“Noah is the name of the dude in The Notebook, right? But there was no mention of his owning a boat.”
My friend has a valid argument. Nothing controversial here.
“Do you remember that TV commercial for the Webber BBQ?”
“Yeah.”
“Has too many adjectives…”
“Like Sean Connery.”
“How is that like Sean Connery?” I’m sure he had a point somewhere. He always had a point. I felt stupid for not being able to piece together how the BBQ ad with too many adjectives related to Sean Connery.
“Well, he’s the least attractive Bond of all time. Don’t get me wrong, I fucking love the accent, but let’s be honest, he’s a bit fucked. You know, visually.”
And there the night and conversation ended. We’d talked about the idea of “terminal loneliness”, whether Bono was related to Ono, if you can hear someone smiling on the other end of a telephone, whether cemeteries conspire with florists and if someone can 100% replicate the sound a typewriter makes. I went to bed, fearful of ageing poorly and being terminally lonely. Only to die, piss my pants and have no one attend my funeral. My body would be offered up to Science, to experiment on. And they’d marvel at my lungs and their holes and the length of my big toe and the triangle shape my shoulders make and the 12 tampons lodged in my lower bowels. And they’d smile on the end of the telephone, telling their loved ones of their discovery, picking up a steak on the way home, to be seasoned with exotic spices and accompanied with a Would You Rather conversation concerning tropical paradises, jail and polka dot dresses.
