by Leonard Pierce
Sure, friend. I’m just like you. Oh, I know, I seem unapproachable, with my thriving career as a failed writer, my jutting stomach and chiseled spine, and my daunting command of most of the English language. But I put my condoms on one foot at a time, just like anyone else. Like you, I’ve had my problems with women, when I’m feeling insecure or they can see what I look like. Like you, I’ve had money trouble, usually because of that stupid phosphorescent dye the banks use these days. And like you, sure, I’ve been arrested two or three dozen times.