Bill Stickers, who are you and what is your
crime? Are you a hooligan or a hoodlum who hoots at whores and
hoolicks on their hooters? Are you a pitiless pederastic pervert
who points his peter at unwilling pudendae? Do you do dope during
dates at drive-ins? Huff hash hastily? Pilfer pennies from parish
Poor Peoples' Boxes? Lacerate ladies' lips? Hijack Hawaiian honeymoon
hotels? Carjack cruising careening Cadillacs? Terrorize tots
on teeter-totters? Translate treacherous Tyrolian tirades for
terrorists? Do you own a chihuahua? Loan cheroots to wannabees?
Besmirch children's own wallabies' wallets? Let wall-flowers
wear red to rallies, shower babies sorrowfully beneath birches'
bows in bowers? Oh how the hours pass and the rows full of beans
await the harvest beneath the harvest moon! Past scenes of whores
in vestments in convents of Fransciscans, Francis can assist
the Sistine ceiling's frescoes, while Bill Stickers robs rows
of convict con artists posing as Levantine investment bankers
venting, mooning, leaking corporate secrets of avant garde sperm
banks (clergy prohibited by Vatican dictum from secreting their
specimens). Here men's dicks come in vats for small payments,
prelates dictate serene prayers of admonition against coition,
and shun such premises. The missus misses her mister's rare advances,
ups the ante, and quaffs antacids. Aunt Acid (so we used to name
her) specialized in spite, china cups, and banter upon holy matters.
Dark matter. Darth Vader. Solemn crusader against intemperance
and stamp collectors.