Tonight, we did inventory at the bookstore. Which means that we spent hours counting books and little whatnots, including this particular treasure:
A nice little tin that will, apparently, gird your loins (quite literally) for the big event. Except that it seems to have a glaring hole in the list of contents:
Unless, of course, you're looking for the Safe and Effective Way to Lose Your Virginity (And Get Pregnant and/or Something Nastier). I was tempted to hunt down a couple of the Darwin Award condoms (which we also sell sometimes... hey, bookstores can be sassy too) and duct tape them on.
Also, I think I missed the boat on seeing Shatner as any kind of sexy. My first introduction to him was Boston Legal, so the immediate image that arises to his name is the stubby-fingered, rather bumbling, and most certainly mad, Denny Crane.
We counted an obscene number of Twilight books. It made me imagine what sort of place I might spend eternity in if I were a horrible person and offered no redeeming qualities to the world. It would be a library, one of those magnificent ones housed in a building so beautiful that it makes you sigh multiple times because you keep forgetting to breathe. And every single book in that library would be something like Twilight, in ranks and ranks of shiny black jackets. To complete the torture, the movie theater across the street would only show films like Michael Clayton.