red pills found beneath the sofa cushions, shorty 2
It’s one thing to take a clinically depressed ex-agency beet out for a couple drinks and Disney on Ice — either out of the goodness of your heart, or with the hope that a leggy, half-frozen chick in a twinkling foam Nemo head might take his mind off of Caspian Sea pipeline conspiracies, or (at the very least) keep him away from the Smack until that next manila envelope stuffed with government cheese comes sliding in through the secret mail slot you’ve punched into the sub-basement wall.
But it’s quite another thing to have that same fucking mopey beet misinterpret the gesture and — drunk on pomegranate daiquiries and career regrets — jam his rubbery tuber stem into your ear while you’re trying to tip the valet.
I mean, what kind of all night drugstore carries earwash capable of breaking through a sucrose orgasm, anyway?
Seriously, tell me. I need help over here.