She has 40-watt-a-pointing-you-know-what's.

She has 40-watt-a-pointing-you-know-what's. She has hung lips and thinks that cotton probably shouldn't be

eaten except in candy form, a good thought. I imagined the Hooters waitress's thoughts at every Happy Hour, imagining her smarter each week until her wits-to-tits ratio exceeded 1.

She was the only Hooters waitress with only 1 tit, so she was easy to identify during happy hour. Her roving right tit had left home and was holed up in a village in Catalonia with

Ernesto, her cousin who had only 1 ball. Ernesto had an unfortunate accident with a pitchfork as a lad. Ernesto also had only 1 eye, 1 arm, and 1 leg. He compensated by

laying in bed and watching television every day because he couldn't afford prosthetics. She told me that every night he would scream "Pitchfork! Testicle!!!" in his sleep and

then wake up, terrified, until she rubbed his crotch to comfort him back to sleep. Once, just as a joke, she bought him a pitchfork for his birthday. He ran screaming from the room

as the pitchfork brought back horrific memories of the Burnings that he had witnessed as a teen. Three of his high-school buddies had been pitched into the blaze for being talented

which was a quaint way of saying they were Friends of Dorothy. They would have been Friends of Declan if they had known him before the Vivienne debacle but, alas, they never got

invited to those sorts of things. Dejectedly, they wended their way down the sad, wet streets, singing songs of which they only knew the first four words. Enraged hookers threw