Kept creeping out of the treeline and snagging left behind items from a series of "conferences" that were, more or less, on the tail end of a rubberband shotputted at administrative people tasked with explaining (i)budget, no budget(i).
Orgs the world over were suddenly and for truly like the emperor with no clothes.
The guy grabbed a broken waisted corn husk hula skirt. He shook it. "Why are you shaking it? What's the meaning?" A small and tidy Asian woman asked. Before he answered, "I like the sound," he debated tying the response into the trend of rebirthing our mythology.
"My daughter (whom he'd been spying on) wants to marry a white man. Think I could convince her to go with this as the wedding dress?"
"It's hard to understand you with the fangs in your mouth." His woman friend had been filling the car tire with a can of air when he emerged from the crop of woods around the open air "conference center". "And you owe me twelve dollars."
"For the air? I could've done it myself!"
"Coulda, shouldah, woulda." She looked at a long string of spit between the guy's mouth and the fangs in hand. Shook her head at the sad state of the world. Stood up and said, "For ruining my eye makeup puttin' it on your face like that."
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