Mail order slave

Just the other day the catalog Uline arrived in my mail box. Usually I recycle such riffraff, but today, I flipped through and happened upon some stellar industrial plastic wrap (cling film). What colors! Black, purple and red are my immediate favorite colors being that they don’t have hot pink, of course.

I think the best use for such an abundance of pretty plastic wrap would be to wrap up an able body slave and have him delivered to my door. I would be so excited when my ordered slave arrived, coming home to a large box, marked “this end up.” I’ve been waiting weeks for such a special delivery. I open the box, packing peanuts come tumbling out and there stands my slave wrapped in purple plastic wrap. Too excited to look for a pair of scissors, I begin tearing the wrap with my sharp black nails. Finally, a pile of purple plastic is on the floor around the feet of my new slave. This—is not—what I ordered!

First of all, this slave is too hairy. I specifically remember checking off hairless on the order form. Well, perhaps I can work with that. I grab the dog hair trimmers and start hacking away to see if I can take this down to size. Hmmm, that’s a little bit better. But what are these two roundish objects down here? I most certainly do not require those. There’s more than one way to skin a cat. My daddy grew up on a farm and told me he used to castrate goats with just a rubber band and time. Moving quickly, I get a large purple rubber band from the asparagus and wrap it around those unnecessary things. I’m totally exhausted by this ordeal. Sitting back in my Eames lounge chair, I ponder if this should even be necessary to overhaul my specially ordered slave. Since I would rather not be brash, I decide to call up my dear friend Vanilla Girl to see what she has to say about this. Vanilla, as per usual is shocked and very interested to see the sub par slave that has arrived in my living room.

By the time Vanilla arrives, I have already found many more problems with my slave. He is pudgy, so with Vanilla’s help, we start circling all the problem areas of fat. All the while I am complaining about this utterly disgusting thing and Vanilla is aghast and appalled by my latest mail order slave. She is usually much too nice in these matters, but I am ruthless, pointing out additional problems such as his apparent lack of programming when I ask him to get into slave positions. I throw my Sharpie® down in disgust. We pack this useless thing back into the box, but don’t seal it quite yet. It is time to call the FedEx guy . . .