His stomach had been hurting for weeks now, no one was participating in T-Shirt Tuesday, and the tambourine’s the instrument they give to the kid who’s not allowed to use metal cutlery in the cafeteria: Pig was having a shitty night.
Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To
One day, Mickey grabbed Pig’s elbow and launched into a lecture on the history and culture of the congas, which he of course insisted on pronouncingĀ COOON-gassĀ and had gotten up to their role in Bolivar’s push for independence when Pig spat a wad of tobacco juice on the floor.
“Yeah, man, I just smack on ’em like they was colored girl titties,” and then Pig walked away.
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