Larry

by Adam Millard

It was the kind of vehicle that only assholes and hippies drove.

So what we don’t brush our beards, and every now and then one of us marries a goat.

“What’s the matter with you, man?” he said, rubbing at his arms. “Jeez, You almost cut me with your calluses!”

“Your barbecue penis is ready!”

Nothing to worry about, apart from those strange worm-y things in my poo. Life could be worse.”

He could sell rice to the Chinese, ice to the Eskimos, and white American children to Angelina Jolie if he had to.