The girl sitting next to you…

in the bar-stool to your right… nooo, your other right. Yeah that girl…

well she is, along with the other patrons in this, mmmm, ?okay establishment?

I mean, it’s not a complete dive bar and even though there aren’t that many “cultured” people beating down the doors to get into this place, it doesn’t smell like piss and puke either… so let’s go with that.

Where was I? Right. This girl, like the others in this okay establishment, is quietly listening, to the diatribe of one, Father Terrence Alloissious Xavier Boss of ‘The Church Of Saint Frances Over By The Door’.

The place across the street from the donut shop. No! Not that donut shop, the donut shop over by the strip club, yeah that one, where the cops all hang out.

Her hair is long and champagne blonde and it has that sorta ethereal glow, when it catches the light just the right way. It’s reminiscent of the strands of silk that wave and ebb on the tops of the stalks in the cornfields.Especially the way the stage light is catching it now. See it? There, right above her shoulder, where her tresses start to flow down the curve of her small but delightful breasts. Breasts that are straining against the fabric of a white tank top. Her shirt is adorned with bunnies and kittens. Stitched strategically in place to nestle in her cleavage, or lay lazily on the ridge of those dark, half dollar circles that surround her long, sensual, nipples. Pinky sized protrusions that poke out of the shirt, that she’s wearing like a tattoo, in an almost uncomfortable display of rigidity.

“Fornication!