In every episode of the Family Guy, my favorite jokes comes about half way through the episode. The gist of it is: “Hey, leading protagonist: Euphemism-for-something-offensive!” The leading protagonist begins to get offended before the camera switches to a scene that explains the scenario.
“Hey, Peter, nice set of melons your wife’s got!”
“Whoa, buddy you—“
“Peter?” his wife Louis says. “I’m holding watermelons.”
So last night, while cruising the large and expansive strip mall architecture of Myrtle Beach, a mini van pulled up next to us. A girl, who relies very heavily on good lighting to get by in life, pulled up next to us and rolled down her window. She had the kind of skin tone and hair color that can only be mishaps from a tanning salon.
Finely brass skins that holds no accord with her corncob yellow and blonde hair.
Though the tinted glass I could see another set of hair just like hers and two more bodies.
“Hi boys, where’re y’all going tonight?”
We were on our way to mini golf before we tried out a dance club, but we omitted the latter.
She wasn’t dressed the way you go out to dinner or to a meat market dance club. She looked as though she were a mantelpiece in a wedding ceremony, or her own prom.
But again, let me stress that this had everything to do with the lighting of the Kings Highway Turnpike along Business Route 17 in Myrtle Beach, SC.
The backdoor slid open and from behind the tinted glass, her twin bridesmaid or possible her date, waved.
The sight of them both hurt my eyes and I had to look away. I could almost smell their disgusting purses. Although these have probably never seen Ohio, I know these girls from serving them at the Red Door Café in Gambier, OH. The come in weekly, their faces already beginning to wrinkle. They’re not hairy, or gross, but the makeup sticks to the peachfuzz on their cheeks, making them look like cancerous lung cilia.
When they talk, their faces bunch up like a partially deflated balloons. I almost want to put their drinks on the house so that they will stop routing through their smelly, smelly purses.
They looked over at the boys in the back and smiled at them.
“We’re going to go play mini-golf now.”
She said something about her destination, I think, but there was a lot of discussion inside of the car as other cars passed between and around the eight of us. I looked over at her new, white mini van.
“Oh, yeah, what is your mom driving you?” I leaned back and prepared to bask in the glory of my hilarious, single-lined, automotive-aimed zinger.
“Yeah,” she leaned back and a forty five year old woman with gray tones in her corn and brass face leaned into the steering wheel. In back, the bridesmaid’s maid leaned forward and the third generation leaned forward. “My gramma’s here to.”