So I’m sitting in my booth, beer in hand, when these two girls suddenly stop by my table, dressed to “kill”, though whatever they’re hunting would probably die more from the sight of one’s boob job and the other’s Adam’s Apple.

Boob Job leans in and asks if I like calendar girls in her high pitched nasally voice that probably gets even worse once she’s had a few drinks in her and just horrendous when she’s taking one in the sack.

I was tempted to ask her to flash me.

“Sure,” I say instead, “sometimes.”

Adam’s Apple tells me I should go to the bar across the street, there’s a bunch of calander girls over there signing stuff.

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

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