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(Charlie was not a brown mustard kind of guy. Brown mustard was the condiment equivalent of skydiving—it was okay for race-car drivers and serial killers, but for Charlie, a fine line of French’s yellow was all the spice that life required.)
Mrs. Korjev liked the very redness of them. She had always been angry that the Communists had co-opted that color, for otherwise it would have evoked an unbridled happiness in her. Then again, the Russian soul, conditioned by a thousand years of angst, really wasn’t equipped for unbridled happiness, so it was probably for the best.
He promised himself he would freak out about it as soon as he had some time.
It is generally agreed, and in fact stated in the bylaws of the American Kennel Club, that you have not been truly dog-humped until you have been double-dog-humped by a pair of four-hundred-pound hounds from hell (Section 5, paragraph 7: Standards of Humping and Ass-dragging).
He was sixty-five years old and not in the best health, having never used his body for much more than to carry his head around, which is where he lived most of the time.
