Feigning Incontinence in the Name of Love

If I’m ever crippled up to the point where I’m homebound, that will be one miserable situation. I’ll be a sad and lonely old man in a musty, cramped apartment. And piled high all around me, like haystacks in a barn, will be hundreds of unopened packages of incontinence pads.

I’ll look like a fucking hoarder of incontinence pads. Because if I’m homebound, I’ll spend all day watching old black-and-white comedies on television. Because what the hell else is there to do when you’re homebound? And when you spend all day watching old black-and-white comedies on television, soon you’ll see commercials for incontinence pads.

And the star of the commercials for incontinence pads is my “personal incontinence consultant.” There she is. Isn’t she lovely? Look at her warm, welcoming smile. Look at her telephone headset. She’s standing by, waiting for ME to call. And it’s toll free!

I know I can trust her with my secrets. I can see it in her eyes. She’s a trained personal incontinence consultant. (Is that what it says on her business cards?)  I’ll be quite nervous when I call because this is my first time. But she understands . She’ll be gentle.

I’ll feel an irresistible infatuation. So I’ll call. She’ll break the ice with small talk. And then, when the mood is just right, she’ll ask if I’m incontinent. I’ll say yes, even though I’m not. But I’ll say I’m incontinent just to impress her. I know that’s the kind of man she’s looking for. I’ll say I’m incontinent just to keep her on the phone.  She’ll ask me if I want her to tell me all about her full line of incontinence pads and I’ll say yes yes oh please yes. And when she asks if I have any questions I’ll ask her a whole bunch of stuff about absorption or whatever. I’ll do anything just to be having a conversation with a woman. I’ll do anything to bring something into my day other than old black-and-white fucking comedies.

And then my personal incontinence consultant will ask for my Medicaid number and I’ll surrender it gladly. And I’ll order a ton of incontinence pads because I love her and I want her to know it. When I fall I fall hard.

And I’ll call back the next day and the next day and the next day and the next just to hear her sweet voice. And I’ll order more and more incontinence pads. All this wouldn’t be so bad if I was incontinent because I’d use the stuff up. But I’m not so it’ll all just pile up because what the hell else can you use incontinence pads for besides their intended purpose? Placemats? I suppose I could stitch a bunch of them together and make a tablecloth.

My friends will hold an intervention. They’ll form a circle around me, sitting on unopened packages of incontinence pads.

But it won’t work. I’ll get in deeper and deeper until my story ends tragically in one of two ways.  I’ll wind up either:

1) In jail, after someone at the Medicaid office notices I’m ordering shitloads of incontinence pads and launches an investigation, or...

2) Dead. I’ll be buried under an avalanche of unopened packages of incontinence pads. 


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