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It's everything I want to tell people when they make small talk and profound talk, but I often can't. Sickness, sex, and the process of dealing with aging parents feel unspeakable and sometimes unreachable, but they sure aren't here.

Sunday, December 25, 2005

PrĂȘt-a-Porter

Some things are just plain tacky no matter what the context. Today I drove to the deli with my favorite bobblehead for our family's Christmas meal. We've decided that the effort expended on cooking and cleaning can be turned into a bill at the deli, and this way no one gets second-degree burns. There I was confronted with an odd specimen: the Pimpomatic Suburbanite, who was throwin' down the style with plenty of (somewhat discolored) bling in each contour of cartildge in his ears, on his watch, and on his key chain. None of that topped the oversized Santa Claus hat, emblazoned with silver glitter: "JINGLE THIS, BEEYOTCH!" It was the attitude that read: "Heeeyyyy baby, I got the hook-up right here: Cletus got me second row seats for the Monster Truck pull, and I just know you'll come to my crib afterward for some Funyons and wine in a box."


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