Fear sells to the lowest common denominator crowd.

Whom amongst us hasn’t been overrun by roving gangs of trans-athletes forcing their agenda upon us?

Why, I was at a local watering hole, a well known place frequented by teachers, Vondee Cruse, assorted downtown business owners and other shadow powers that actually run our fair town.

So, I says to the bartender, I says, “hey, can I get a can of Schlitz?”

This barrel chested creature, with the calloused hands of a lumberjack, five o’clock shadow, crudely appointed rouge on its sun-scarred cheeks, cherry red lipstick applied in several crooked layers, giving it the visage of a child’s jack-o-lantern says “he means a pink squirrel.”

Damned if I didn’t drink pink squirrels the rest of the night.

It was a night of romance not seen since Steve Martin met the motorcycle carnival chick in “The Jerk.”

Durn these transformers!

Sincerely,

M. Lindell