Sammy's Kids

Yeah, you can milk three hundred, you betcha. For weeks even, if you’re good. But do Hippie Boy and Dirtbag look like dairy farmers? I don’t think so. No, sir, you won’t find them squeezing on a buck like the withered teat of a dried-up old moo cow: Hippie Boy and Dirtbag were bred for the good life. Make that the fine life, as in when the homies say, “Yo, my man, how’s it?” to which they reply, “It is fine, daddy-o, it is fiiine,” then slide their wraparounds into place, stomp on the pedal, and feel themselves pushed by the loving hand of God’s own acceleration deep into the blood-red leather of an Eldorado convertible, the ghosts of Frank and Dean and Sammy singing in the exhaust and that funny little tickle in their stomachs knowing the boys in the Exxon boardroom are smiling down on them as another of the nation’s nonrenewable resources goes up in smoke. Yessir. Uh-huh. Dig it.