red pills found behind the sofa cushions, green pills edition (prolepsis)
Shortcomings in physical construction prevent most hoodies from driving manual automobiles. But my hoodie—never one to shy away from a challenge (just ask the bouncer at Pub on Pearl, whose testicles are likely still lodged in his abdomen)—figured out a way to use its drawstrings to work an elaborate pully system crafted from monofilament fishing line and a pair of unwound wire coat hangers that hooks readily to my Jeep’s pedal array.
—Which, it turns out, works out exceedingly well for both of us, because the double-cheese and sausage pizza we just ordered from Pasquini’s ain’t gonna deliver itself—and, having washed down a handful of greenies (methylenedioxymethamphetamine) with a six pack of Mike’s Hard Lemonade, I’m in no condition to operate a flush toilet, much less something so complicated as a clutch. Whereas the last cop who pulled over my hoodie for driving erratically? He was so freaked out when he found a disembodied cotton garment alone in the driver’s seat with a bucket of hot wings that he simply let the hoodie go with a warning.
And who can blame him? Because how in the world do you handcuff a fucking hoodie, even if you wanted to?
And therein, friends, lies the genius…