It was like a sewer out there. From my window, I could see it all. They came from out of nowhere and scattered to and fro. No one was safe. A foul stench had followed them. It wore glasses and a suit and carried recent polling trends of central-leaning lesbian atheists. It looked and smelt like hell, for political ideologies I have found are harder to get out of a suit than grape. I met up with a friend a little while back. He had this ugly stain on his lucky tie.
"Barry," I asked him, referring to the tie. "That's your favorite tie."
Barry looked at the tie wistfully and sighed. "Marxism. I got past Karl alright, but Engels." His expression said it was something he no longer wanted or desired to relive. It cuts both ways. Cindy Miles of Topeka was held on suspicion of murder when traces of brain were found on the front of her shirt. Ms. Miles was incapable of hurting a fly. It turns out she had spent the weekend reading Ann Coulter.
TV has made it much worse. Now, they no longer worry about the quality of message, just how short the skirt of the blonde who was delivering it was. I tried the scene but had no stomach for it. Gave me indigestion. So I became a private investigator. One without a secretary. It was worse, because I needed a file and had no idea where it was. If I had known this was the downside of playing grab ass in the office, I would've bought a pool table or, at least a dart board.
Of course, that's the way life goes. Nothing in it is guaranteed. You go out for a cup of coffee and a donut one morning and, before you know it, a hoodlum has his gun in your face and you have an itch you just can't scratch. Sure, the blonde with the cavernous cleavage and future back issues, has long delectable finger nails to soothe that itch. I was going to ask her if she would help me out, but the guy with the gun was being very needy.
