Less Rakish

 

Yep, I think it was one of those deals where nobody is thinking too much about anything. They were just sitting around in groups of three and four dangling participles and cleaning their pips with their tracheas. It was insanity at its best. The lovable people without hats weren't ashamed to be a part of such nonsense. They had spent most of their lives washing their socks with detergents that had names like "Clean 'em and Weep," and “Suds 'em Good Cuz You So Dirty." Many rebelled against such social unacceptability and gave their hearts and minds to science while still driving around in their marginally equipped gray-scale SUVs. Questions abounded, but there were no answers. Just lots of conjecture and the espousal of opinions on spousal abuse. Young women stampeded through the doors of Wal-Mart, proclaiming it "I'ma Gonna Get Me a Paira those Pink Panties Today," Day. But all the pink panties had been sold the day before, and several women took the store manager hostage and held him at bee-bee gun point, demanding their pink panties or else they would shoot bee-bees into his ear and nose and make him "drop it like it's hot." It was precisely this kind of psychosocial horseshit that caused so many women in the community to inflict themselves with so much chaos and turmoil and heroin. Jenny Maloney, who works as a caseworker for a nonprofit organization that really doesn't do a hell of a lot, except rack up all kinds of grant money from the state and federal government explained, "It's a bit like rolling out of bed in the middle of the night, turning on the oven and thinking "OK, time to stick my heads in this thing so I can get on with it. Then, upon realizing cameras were rolling, she promptly covered her head with a babushka, lit a non-filtered cigarette, and proceeded to walk toward the Equator. That's when her guypal Guy Frownly suddenly appeared with a dozen dandelions and a forty-ouncer. "But I love ya, sweetpants," he said, choking on his cigarillo. "Can't lives without-cha."