Barbara met Chevy at Museum coffeeshop. He

Barbara met Chevy at Museum coffeeshop. He was crying into his latte and Barbara asked him what was wrong. He explained the Art exhibit of abstract photomontage moved him to tears

. Barbara, a realist, slapped him. "Abstract? phah." Chevy whimpered, "But you have to understand the context..." "That's IT!" She said, "I'm dating a wildlife painter."

"But this IS a wildlife painting, honey!" Chevy retorted. "Bullshit, it's just a bunch of random-ass shapes!" Barbara insisted. "Look harder." As she squinted, he made his getaway

Ha I fooled that bitch again! Chevy ran around the corner and in the back door of the bar, hiding behind a keg. Later he came out and ordered a beer. Your Late Barbara burped slap

my nine year old son. Now he hates adults. He has taken to archery and shot a flaming arrow into a pile of

adults last week. I'll have to have a word with him about that, slap his wrist, something like that. I wouldn't like him to grow up to become one of those terrible

belly dancers at the mall who are slightly overweight and slightly too close to my reckless Sbarro-and-Cinnabon lunch. But he was born to strut his gut. He cut up his shirts and

ate them. Who needs shirts, anyway? Certainly not someone like Gerald Hansen; his shield of blubber protected him from the lukewarm Texas winters.

Socks too. Who needs socks in Texas? Only wusses that get bothered by fire ants, rattle snakes, and sand fleas. Gerry actively searched for clothes that didn't need to be worn,

like headless tophats and crotchless hot pants. He rifled through his wardrobe of invested invisible vests and pushed aside his sole-less toe-less shoes, feeling soulless himself.