Pinto-A-Go-Go

Johnny pops his head in and blurts:

I slid on some ice last week and hit a curb, breaking my drive shaft. The car was damaged, too. Repairs proceed, but in the meanwhile, all the agency had was a Jeep Cherokee 4 x 4. This is another case of learning how cliche’d expressions got that way. I climbed into this monster and I immediately felt like I was driving a tank. I have to admit, it’s a masterful, invincible feeling, looking down at the tiny little cars. I can see now what a gnat I look like to people driving these things. They said I could come by today and see if anything smaller had come in off the road and give back the Jeep. I didn’t go by.

OJ inoculated me against American justice. I just laughed when Robert Blake got off with that preposterous yarn about going back to the restaurant to get his gun. Balls big enough to tell that one, maybe he deserves to walk, besides which, if I were him, I would have shot Bonny Lee a lot sooner. A few miles away, it’s heartening to see that Scott Peterson could sell bullshit for a living but not to a jury. I don’t care how much of a prissy pain in the ass she was. Get a divorce like the rest of us hapless bastards. Fry, you stupid asshole. Fry!

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I’m not a lawyer, but as your attorney, I advise you to get a divorce and pretend you’re Oscar Madison, not Billy Madison. Grow up!

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