She crushed the butt out in a commemorative Doctor Teeth ashtray and rooted around for more BBQ Lays. She couldn’t get enough chips in her hoof, so she picked up the whole bowl and stuck her face in it. Her pa would have asked if she’d been raised on a farm, and what would she have said? What a fucking stupid question. Well, you could take the pig off the farm (and give her acting lessons and a boob job), but you couldn’t… you know the rest.

She pulled her snout out of the bowl and glared at the flickering piece’o’crap TV. The satellite was about to go out again. She could tell. “He’s a lousy lay,” she announced.

“Wha?” said Jermaine, surprised enough to pour Coors on his shirt instead of into his gob.

Had she been talking to Jermaine or to the lime-colored blob on the screen? The lime blob was telling an anecdote about his early days as a TV weatherman. She’d believed this particular story for fifteen years until Kermie’s old dealer, this grumpy green rag who lived in a dump, told her it was horseshit.