My Fellow Inebriates,
We spotted our first Moobs of 2013 yesterday, their jouncing thinly concealed under the reflective “X” of a shirtless garbage collector.
The day was radiant—cornflower-blue skies and 9°C—not spring but hinting strongly of it, and crocuses corroborating. Those Man Boobs had probably been confined all winter and were now having their day in the sun.
Despite the obvious joyfulness of the scene, my mother narrowed her eyes as the garbage collector pitched our can across the next-door neighbor’s driveway and then ran off after his truck, his moobs a riot of springtime delight.
“It’s begun,” she said.
“I know, isn’t it spectacular? If I weren’t covered with fur, I could shake my moobs like that. All six of them. Really, it calls for a toast.”
She looked at her watch. “It’s 7:45 a.m.”