Life's Simple Pleasures
Part of defeating the terrorists is not letting them alter the way we live our lives. How do we do that?
By doing things that would make Lycan proud.
As I came home from a remedial stop at work, I saw a couple of attractive girls working a street corner... But not in the way you'd expect. They were high school girls, and they had signs advertising a car wash for the cheerleading squad at my high school.
I continued driving, and instead of taking my usual route home I drove by the high school (which, not so coincidentally, is around the block from my house). I eventually got to my driveway, and made a couple of calls on my mobile phone to ask help in making the judgment call. Do I go? Don't I? Neither buddy answered, so I made a choice, and went.
The girls were cute, though most were a bit mid-pubescent for my tastes, probably on account of their ages; I'm guessing sixteen at the oldest. The one who washed the bonnet of my car and squeegeed my windshield was the best looking, a blonde in short black shorts and a pink halter top. I guess you're never too young to be a dirty old man.
The moral of the story? If I stop giving three dollars to have high school cheerleaders in halter tops do a surprisingly good job washing my car, the terrorists win.
By doing things that would make Lycan proud.
As I came home from a remedial stop at work, I saw a couple of attractive girls working a street corner... But not in the way you'd expect. They were high school girls, and they had signs advertising a car wash for the cheerleading squad at my high school.
I continued driving, and instead of taking my usual route home I drove by the high school (which, not so coincidentally, is around the block from my house). I eventually got to my driveway, and made a couple of calls on my mobile phone to ask help in making the judgment call. Do I go? Don't I? Neither buddy answered, so I made a choice, and went.
The girls were cute, though most were a bit mid-pubescent for my tastes, probably on account of their ages; I'm guessing sixteen at the oldest. The one who washed the bonnet of my car and squeegeed my windshield was the best looking, a blonde in short black shorts and a pink halter top. I guess you're never too young to be a dirty old man.
The moral of the story? If I stop giving three dollars to have high school cheerleaders in halter tops do a surprisingly good job washing my car, the terrorists win.
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