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So there I was, driving around town–which wasn’t especially pleasant, given the rain and the cold and the weird pain I get in my ass when I sit on my wallet for too long–and a song came on the radio, and for the first time in, I dunno, 20-some-odd years I heard the lyrics. And what I heard for the first time was:

She had a pocket full of horses–Trojans, some of them used.

And of course I know the line, I can sing it in my sleep. I even remember the video and how very “video” it looked. But unlike the rest of America–nay, the world–I’d never processed what Mr. Minneapolis was saying. And when I finally did, today at 2:15pm, after finishing a rare meal of fast food–not rare because I hate fast food, but rare because stupid, corporate, stinko fast food restaurants have been the last to open here in still-ravaged New Orleans–I blanched and laughed and belched all at the same time. Because, really, what kind of girl carries around used condoms? In her pocket? And shows them off? To dates?

• Psycho bitches?

• Amateur geneticists?

• Lesbians too poor to visit the sperm bank?

• Beauty-obsessed women looking for the Next Big Thing in skincare?

• Finicky prostitutes?

• Recycling enthusiasts?

• Atkins fanatics who sometimes need a snack in the middle of the afternoon?

• Drag queens?

So today, when I at last saw Prince’s date in my mind’s eye–some girl with a Toni Home Perm pulling over to the side of the road, thrusting her ass in the air so she can squeeze a hand into the front pocket of her tight, acid-washed jeans and pull out a handful of foil-wrapped contraceptives and a few disheveled, lint-flaked latex receptacles with semen-filled reservoir tips–I kinda swerved and almost ran a Chrysler Pacifica off the road. Which would’ve been okay because those cars give me the creeps anyway.