Whence comes this con...dom-in-the-win-dow?

Oh, myster’ous condom from the sky, ‘pon my windowsill — wherefore is thy Romeo casting the likes of thee out the grated vent?

Thou, who, I can see, performed thy duty to protect and serve, because, though, at first, I admit, thy integrity did I doubt, upon further inspection at the business end of my toilet-cleaner-liquid bottle, thou showed thyself whole and unbreached as the Allies’ front lines in The Battle of the Bulge.

Thou wert marked by a strange yellow stain off-tip about 1/8 of the way to base, and a downy pigeon feather clinging to thy exterior. Dear mystery condom, I implore thee, reveal what brand of sordid lunacy did up there transpire.

Furthermore, oh puzzling prophylactic, why such an unceremonious exit wert thou granted consequent to performing so ably thy duty? Not even a proper burial in the trash can was afforded thee? Ay, perhaps it is for daredevils like thee a far grander finale to leave the world of the undiscarded via a kamikaze act of defenestration, no doubt tossed off either as post-coital ablution or urination. Perhaps the bladder so full spared no time for erection redirection, and thou wert shot out the window as if an ill-placed camper who’d perched atop Old Unfaithful in Yellowstream National Park.

Or so thou must have thought, when thou began thy plummet so many hours ago, not knowing thy journey would reach only the fourth-floor ledge before quickly meeting with abeyance. With pride and sanguinity do I spur on thy daredevil descent with a poke of this stick, hopeful that to thee soon comes the purpose of thy new stage of existence and with that knowledge the blessing of the dutifully employed, for theirs is peace of mind.