I’ve got the obligatory Hendrix perm and the inevitable pinhole burns
Now all down the front of my favorite satin shirt
I’ve got nicotine stains on my fingers, I’ve got a silver spoon on a chain
Got a grand piano to prop up my mortal remains
Pink Floyd, Nobody Home
It’s the 1970s. You are a swinging real estate broker with a taste for Popov and an itchy lead foot that you hope can replace your desperate need for Viagra and blow jobs…
Continue reading “Leisure Suits and Gold Chains”
I guess our test drive of a ’94 Mustang was a little too spirited.
Continue reading “Why Galesburg Ford Banned Me and 8 Barrel”
Oh, now be honest, Captain, warrior to warrior. You do prefer it this way, don’t you, as it was meant to be?
I am innocent, no matter what that cop on a motorcycle just past the crest of a hill says.
|Speed Trap, bike path. We don’t fucking care. We’ll still get you, Gonzo
|Any particular reason you are driving 56 in a 55, boy?”|
I suppose it could have been worse. I could be paying “Arizona’s Law Firm” to (not) save my ass.