Humungus Feels Nostalgic, Crushes Feeling

Dear Milliwalk-a,

You speak, of course, of the vaunted Жемчужина России. The memory takes me back to sweltering, humid summers, the 19-year old Lone Ranger and his Mexican sidekick Tonto, pausing on the corner in our suits and ties, drops of frustration beading on our foreheads, Russian Pearls in hand. All around us strode the finest Jezebels the city had to offer, hustling bralessly to-and-fro in sheer shirts and shrink-wrapped miniskirts. We stood like the Cliffs of Dover in our white missionary shirts, the waves of temptation crashing, breaking, receding. I fondly remember the Russian Pearl.

But comparing the two confections is impossible. It's like trying to quantify the joy you got from your high school car. You loved your ’85 Prelude by itself because it was jet-black and hawt. There's a second layer to why you loved it: for the role it played, namely, giving you independence. But you were different and the situation was diffent back then. Similarly, I loved the Pearl both intrinsically and extrinsically. Intrinsically for the way it cooled me off and gave me a brief glimpse into heaven. Extrinsically for its uncanny ability to distract me from the gently bobbing bosoms nodding "good day" to me at every turn. "Well hello, yes, good day to you too, ladies. No. No thank you. I can't stop to chat. I have to finish this Pearl before it melts." I became a paragon of self-discipline thru scripture study and ice cream.

Zebra Cakes possess the same intrinsic ability to rouse the tastebuds. And in this wasteland of thirtysomething dating, I’m nearly as monkish now as I was then. Nevertheless, I have strong doubts that a Zebra Cake could provide the same safe harbor in the face of such temptations today. Even the shelter provided by the mighty Жемчужина России might be swept away in such a storm. These days I'm down to a threadbare tarp for protection from the elements. On the right day, a faint breeze bearing the right perfume could topple my lean-to.