74 Ladies who lunch and the puns they wield

“Shock and awe. Shock and m_____f_____’ awe,” muttered Uncle Joe. He wasn’t going to boogie around reality now. He wanted to hang out while glory rubbed off on him – plenty would if his nephew survived the last leaping bicycle riders – but that frog appearing in a cloud of smoke like Jesus did, or whatever it was that Jesus did, freaked Joe into knowing his place. The command was to go get the cake. He wouldn’t mess with it.
He glanced one last time at the micro Second Coming in the cafe before moving toward Larkspur on foot. Where the cake was.
But he could just hear how those housewife bitches would say it, at that big table, like they were being interviewed on the red carpet or something. They’d say something, like, about not “trifling” with the frog. “Hop to it.” Like they were clever or something. Had class. F_____’ bitches with their f_____’ douchebag husbands probably moved to San Anselmo from f_____’ New Jersey or some hick f______’ state like that. F___ them.
“I wish my name was Drew,” he shuddered.


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