wagering over whether Clipperton’ll even bother to materialize at Indy now that he’s extorted himself to the sanctioned top he must have craved so terribly, or whether he’ll retire from the tour now and lie around masturbating over the Glock in one hand and the latest issue of NAJT in the other.
Footnote says: "The both-hands-full logistics of which are hard to envision, but realism wasn't really the point of the image for the bitter Brigade boys." And I laughed out loud - seems most of the overt humor in this book is toilet/locker room quality.
