And that's a ca. 1972 orange silk bandanna/cravat that unfortunately ended up getting sucked right off my neck and into the drain of the hot tub. Pity. It looked swanky. The glasses I don't know who they belonged to. Not me. That was one helluva party, tell you what.
I got ma hands in the AY-uh in homage until such time as this is taken up into some larger ritual with satisfactory disco-ontological scope. It's the suspenders, their fastidious careless punctiliously appointed nonchalance and the slapdash precision of them, that clench the ole sphincter on it, my view.
ReplyDeleteGotta side witcha dare, frere. Man's gotta go SHARP dressed or go widout.
ReplyDeleteAnd when we both are determined by independent regulatory agencies to have wattles, let's take the scooters downtown to scare small children and shop for colorful silk wattle-scarves together, kay?
ReplyDeleteAn' go courtin.
ReplyDeleteThem scooters go pretty fass, and their nearly silent. And the gubment buys em for yoo if you can get your parole officer to testify that your retarded on account of marijuana or whatever, is my understanding.
ReplyDeleteI got em convinced I's retarded, but I haint seen no scooter, stealth or notherwise.
ReplyDeleteThis bit about wattles is makin me wanna die.