It's the end of the year as we know it, and I feel fine.

Another year rapidly diminishing into fermented dregs and mononucleosis outbreaks and a new one with the tamper-evident seal still intact is being savored. In a matter of hours, 2008 will be laid open and violated like a sex doll at a Viagra convention.

I'm rather glad I have not pulled the night shift tonight. With a holiday that traditionally is equated with getting completely blitzed, social, and getting the last of your urges out before ostensibly starting with a clean slate, the shift at an adult store on a surreal cast. The business day may be quite sedate, with small, simple purchases and customers drifting in and out on occasion leaving the store mostly uninhabited, which other than the perils of having a bored staff in close proximity to adult novelties and time to explore, say the aerodynamic properties of various rubber-like phallic objects, poses little danger to anything other than untarnished childhood memories of lawn darts and horseshoes. (By the way, with nothing more than a handful of cock-rings, small butt-plugs, a writing implement and scrap paper, you can get a good game of Tic-Tac-Toe going. Someday, I shall have to finish mapping the pieces for sex toy chess.)

On the other hand, you might get amorous couples who have imbibed just enough celebration that their affection overwhelms their sense of location. It may sound like Penthouse letter in the making, but the reality of a sloppy drunk soccer mom discussing her partner's "package" and slurring what she's going to do with it in the middle of your aisle rarely arouses more than a migraine. Perhaps even a mop bucket.

It doesn't have to be sloshed couple however. Odds are excellent for an increased incidence of solitary drunks deciding that the best way to celebrate is to get their porn on. Welcome to behavioral Russian roulette.

I hope tonight goes peacefully for the evening staff.

Poor bastards.