“Y’know that smell? Like, that smell that you smell when you’re smelling, but it’s more like that smell that smells like that smell you’re smelling when you smell?…that’s the smell—that Huffy smell. It smells, like, like it’s down from up in, like, the stunt mines…y’know where the Sandal Masters tunnel for wood, all suck jeans and corduroy rash.”
“Sweet jugs of Chevrolet…if that ain’t some itch paste in pony shade…”
“Right? It’s, like, total burger fur on the sex drapery; like, like, that Timothy Handle the Pulp Uncles popped on the Denim Clowns—like squirrel taste”
“A total funk detour shaved of fragrance; a dead tattoo battery, that.”
“It’s like I’m saying, mang, it’s like I’m literally saying, it’s that smell…”
“We’ve got to prickle up the gauzy horses and—“
“And bro thumb this Mongoose…Exactly!”
“We do. We do…”
if you dig duct taped, vinyl banana seats: