“Aha!” Clyde’s hand shoots up in the air, and he stabs toward the ceiling with one of my sharper kitchen knives. “I’m right!” He points the knife my way. “You, my friend, just need to blow a spliff, have a nap, and consider getting a little sun on your perineum.” “Clyde, I will never put sun on my perineum.” All I get for that is an eye roll. But then the man pauses. “Does that mean you’ll blow a jay with me?”
