Floor It!

I knew the Unabomber. He once lent a left-handed gangly wrench to my late grandmother when she was swapping the differential on her 1973 Torino Sportsroof. As a result, her trap times dropped by almost 2 seconds in the quarter mile and she was so grateful she always sent him a Christmas card.

So lemme tell ya, when that fat sacka crap in the White House talks about my grannie's friend Ted like he knows him or something, he's talking out of his fat stinky butthole. Mr. K, as we called him, always opined that the Oaf of Office would look better under a limo than in it, if you get my drift.

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You know what this whole Jeffrey Epstein thing is about?

It's about pussy. It's about really young pussy. It's about really young pussy as a commodity. It's about aging adolescent men who would risk going to jail for life just to say they've ripped one more virgin wide open than than the next guy.

Dudes, learn a new language. Take an engineering course. Take up painting, build a model train set, discuss philosophy. No one CARES how many 14-year-olds you've lured to your sex dungeon on any number of pretenses and then sexually assaulted. Except you. Leave these women alone at least until they're old enough to rent a car. Quit fucking this world up just because your penis is a shriveled mushroom and your daddy didn't love you.

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I'm at that age where I'm often asked by new acquaintances if I'm retired. I tell them I am but I have a part-time gig putting those little stickers on bananas. And, I tell them, you can always know they're mine because I put mine on upside down.

"So, if I see one upside down, that's yours?"

"No. I put them on while upside down, hanging by my feet. You see..."

At which point they stop asking questions and I can return to my holiday shoplifting.

- Lefty