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Still in gay pinstripe clown-style pajamas, Joe Chip hazily seated himself at his kitchen table,
He wore a polyester dirndl, his long hair in a snood, cowboy chaps with simulated silver stars. And sandals.
A weak-nosed young man, dressed in a maxiskirt, with an undersized, melon-like head,
a flabby, big-footed, middle-aged, unnatural-looking individual with pasted-down hair, muddy skin plus a peculiar protruding Adam’s apple – clad, for this occasion, in a shift dress the color of a baboon’s ass.
Potbellied, squat and thick-legged, Stanton Mick perambulated toward them. He wore fuchsia pedal-pushers, pink yakfur slippers, a snakeskin sleeveless blouse, and a ribbon in his waist-length dyed white hair. His nose, Joe thought; it looks like the rubber bulb of a New Delhi taxi horn, soft and squeezable. And loud. The loudest nose, he thought, that I have ever seen.
a beetle-like individual wearing a Continental outfit: tweed toga, loafers, crimson sash and a purple airplane-propeller beanie.
