The Perfect Life #33: Dumpster Diving for Love

The Perfect Life #33 by Dr. Perfect

Dumpster Diving for Love

Dear Doctor Perfect,

I can’t find anyone who shares my raccoon kink. And before you get ahead of yourself, no, it’s not bestiality—I like to dress in a raccoon costume and dig through the garbage. It’s harmless. Exploratory. Playful. Everything sex should be! So why haven’t I found a partner yet? How are there over 20,000 Bronies in this world but apparently only one lone, lonely racoon?

I hope that with your wide audience and the power of the internet, you can help me find my people. My ultimate fantasy is group sex, so if you know of any secluded dumpsters, please advise.


Dear Lonesome Raccoon,

I took one glance at this letter and said, “Not another one!” I get a lot of inquiries from the furry and Brony communities as they both navigate through the dizzying minefield of love. Or in most cases that cross my desk, kinky, fetish-driven sex.

I recall my dating years like they were yesterday. Naturally, I was perfect at it, but the entire charade wore thin. Lost in a sea of hapless singles collectively clawing their way to potential companionship was no way to live. I can’t say the times weren’t without their charm. This was the early ‘80s when life was a party. You’d probably fit right in, because everyone was wearing raccoon costumes back then, among the usual drug-fueled kinkiness.

The most important factor in any romantic pursuit is maintaining one’s dignity. This is where you’re “holding all the cards,” as they say. If dumpster-diving raccoon role play/foreplay is your thing, don’t settle for anything less. Once you start compromising, the dream is dead. Next thing you know, you’ll be languishing in the corner of some hipster bar in an ill-fitting cardigan, pretending to text on your phone.

My mother raised me to never give up. In grade school, I went through a typically adolescent nihilist phase after reading copious amounts of Nietzsche. Simple requests to take out the garbage were met with lengthy diatribes from yours truly about the structural fallacy of waste, among other grievances.

She told me to leave and not come back until I was “sane.” For fourteen years, I lived in boxcars and sundry motel rooms, eventually returning home a man. Then, I moved out for real and found success in multiple endeavors. I, too, had felt like a raccoon in a maze. Or was it a rat?

Consider that raccoons are solitary creatures by nature. You’ve set yourself at a disadvantage that could be easily remedied with the right finesse. Ignore the bronies. I know plenty of secluded dumpsters, but they’re usually swarming with Hollywood executives, searching for the next franchise to reboot. Fear not. With Valentine’s Day approaching, there’s bound to be an animal orgy behind the nearest Waffle House.

Dr. Perfect has slung advice across the globe for the last two decades due to his dedication to the uplift of the human condition.

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The Drunken Odyssey is a forum to discuss all aspects of the writing process, in a variety of genres, in order to foster a greater community among writers.


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