Alphabet soup, stapled together and still deep undercover. Riddled with whiskey and gurgling movie quotes, it was high time the three of them took off. Maraschino cherries were all that was left, and foreclosure on the campsite left little to the libido. Cans of water and sliding down the nylons couldn't be further from the truth - chicks with dicks and all that jazz. Twice cooked pork was the farthest from your mind. Puzzle pieces and playing cards were not the worst I could do, but by no means were they the best, either. Painstaking scrutiny was dispensed by shorter people, kings for a day again in Margaritaville, but not really. Folks, these were the days when a gigolo like Spiro Agnew could descend into the darkness and still keep a piece of the cake for his kids. Truly, that was happiness. All the main characters were paralyzed, and I'm not listening. Cross my broken heart, no one's doing it right anymore. The churches have been liberated and the ovens are set on "clean." Coffee is put on ice and contains no peanuts. Is this the exposure a young coed deserves? If there weren't any more books, who would pay that bill? Point is, people and other things shouldn't be having that. What's become of all this dark hair we've seen? To put it lightly, chicken skin is too delicious to be determined. A shaved field mouse is still just that. And, not to be relevant, but even the nights are better. Erectile disillusionment is something to be pampered, not hampered. And with that, and the chicken skin thing, you start to see just where they're coming from, and where they're going: driving stick up the highway to hell with no real critique of all this hoopla.