I just ordered a suckling pig from Marvin's Meats. They assure me it will fit in the oven, but I have my doubts.
Last Friday night I went to a party where the host had installed an empty pool inside half this old house. All you could see were legs flying past the windows as folks skated the bowl from the living room to the dining room. Half the fun was waiting for someone to get decapitated.
It was on par with a poured-concrete swimming pool I once saw inside a shotgun shack in New Orleans, which took up two-thirds of the house. As I stood there crouched beneath the low ceiling, my friend's old buddy pointed out the changing room for his little swimming students and touched their sweet little bathing suits hanging on hooks, and I realized this jovial character must be a pedophile. At least the kids wouldn't drown when trying to escape.
A letter from Quenton Miller showed up in my mailbox deservedly questioning if the magazine still exists. As I replied, "persist" is a better description of our situation.
Not a whole lot of people have noticed us huffing paint under this tarp, though the night is filled with wild snickering. But you have, so we raise a glass of something strong to you and promise some good pool parties are just around the corner.
