Joel spent President's Day tooling around the house scratching his now-defined pecs.
Later in the afternoon, neighbors in the complex complained of the smell when Joel decided to try grilling bologna and dick with vinegar on his porch. Noise complaints were also filed when Joel started cranking his Saigon Kick albums. Joel almost got arrested when he refused to turn it down until the last verse of "Spanish Rain" was done. Police, as usual, let him off with a stern warning.
Mrs. Betterham next door tried to start a conversation with him about her favorite soap, "Wicked Wicked Games." Either social awkwardness or painful memories of the botched screenplay prevented Joel from engaging with her. He instead stared at her pale, pendulous breasts hanging low in front of her belly, swaying lazily every time she shifted weight onto another foot. He asked her if she had a son or nephew nearby. Or anyone with dick.
Joel spent the rest of the day alone.
(pictured above, Joe Baran provides a visual balance to his incandescent forehead)
1 comment:
Brilliant!
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