Here is the shameful little one: the primary blue piglet with a cocktail sword and email account password in his fake-looking pocket. He's drawn check marks in permanent marker all over his canvas sneakers. He secretly loves the smell of a cigar. His dreams are swamps.
The reason we're walking away in this silence is obvious, is it not? As obvious as the dry yellow grass. The little telephone I carry in my pocket starts making a racket and to a distant observer--our piglet, let's say--I begin inexplicably smacking my hip. I whisper "I'm embarrased it's orange." But you hear, "Time for ass, it's on."
Now I'm in a pickle, attempting to explain the unlikely sexual congress that transpired in my recent past. I cannot reconcile the easy lapse of inhibition as our encounter occurred with the disciplined way that I normally conduct myself. LOL
