Please help me.

Roughly twenty years ago, cluttered within a small heap of discarded litter on the side of the road, my wife found a single, old, pink, dirty flip-flop toward the far end of the 2400 block of Lincoln Boulevard in Venice, California.

Although never suffering from any mental illness, she insisted this dingy women’s flip-flop was a divine aphrodisiac sent to us from God, meant for establishing an invariable pre-sex ritual.

From that day forth, before every sexual encounter we’ve shared since, I’ve been forced to wear that grubby, soiled flip-flop on my erect penis while my wife anoints us both with toilet water and recites the Lord’s Prayer in Pig Latin.