Cindy and Dr. Gutt were sun tanning themselves this afternoon when I came home from the dog fights. The water looked refreshing, and to be fair, it was a perfect day out, but I truly hate when Cindy doesn’t wear her bikini brazier in front of Pinko. I get it, I get it. The man gave you those hooters, and he’s seen them both pre- and post-op, but goddamn it, there’s nothing sacred about artificial breasts when she’s showing them to her commie surgeon all the time.
“Where’s Rage?” she had asked, and I had to tell her that he was at the kennel and might not make it. I thought she’d be mad, but she just fanned herself with an old edition of ¡Mira! and leaned back in her lounge chair.
Pinko was in an orange Speedo I hadn’t seen him in before, and I briefly noticed splotches of dark discoloration from his sweating balls before I turned away with bile in my throat. His little dainties matched his orange skin as well as Cindy’s enormous sombrero and bikini shorts and flip flops. They had probably coordinated their outfits, and I was more than pleased to see Cindy’s pink cast contrasting so brightly against all their orange. The Maverick is omnipresent, I thought privately.
Pinko told me I was looking paler than usual and recommended I take a “splash” in the pool. I pulled my shirt cuff past my Rolex and then said “Battlestar Galactica” in my best mongoloid voice. Cindy scowled at me, so I scowled back and said “It’s Friday. He knows I watch Battlestar on Friday.”
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