I remember when we used to be just boys. So does Jackson. He was the other boy. Jib Bone was one, too, but he don’t remember much. My name is Pepper. The days were innocent. They were sunny. We sipped Pina Coladas by the stock tank. Virgin, of course. We raced around cow pies until Jib Bone ran into one. We scrubbed him in the stock tank. Our mothers would lay around in lawn chairs and sip real drinks and talk about other lives–fresh off episodes of Housewives and somebody-loves-people from car crashia. Our mothers were not very pretty, but they would wave yee-haws over to farmer Johnson, who wasn’t very pretty either (‘least according to Jackson–I’ve got no opinions on the matter, but Jacky went that way).
We weren’t allowed to watch the Simpsons, but our mothers were whores.