Doober had no cell phone reception and Skippy had tenesmus... which is worse? Hard to tell, but as Doober drove into the Astroturf Foothills without the aide of his cohort, his mindspace didn't seem to be occupied with wireless service or poop or D-cups (psyche! D-cups are totally, like, always on Doobers mind!), he was, quite simply, thinking about bald men. Specifically, he was wondering whether the ruffians he'd seen at the Thompsonsquire Gatfoos Club the night before were actually blankheads or whether they were balding and shaved their remaining hairs to feign blankheaddom. He settled on the latter.
Skippy, meanwhile, was much further South, sitting before an LCD screen drinking LSD milk and thinking about liquid crystals and tattoos. Since opening the Thompsonsquire Gatfoos Club in A.D. 4568, Skippy's life had become serene, comfortable, albeit predictable. Enter Doober, who at the age of 25 still writhed with the fury of a thousand ants on shit, and we all know how mighty the ants are.
[To be continued... more was written but accidentally erased, prompting the author nearly to jump out the window.]
Skippy, meanwhile, was much further South, sitting before an LCD screen drinking LSD milk and thinking about liquid crystals and tattoos. Since opening the Thompsonsquire Gatfoos Club in A.D. 4568, Skippy's life had become serene, comfortable, albeit predictable. Enter Doober, who at the age of 25 still writhed with the fury of a thousand ants on shit, and we all know how mighty the ants are.
[To be continued... more was written but accidentally erased, prompting the author nearly to jump out the window.]
