75 Say hello to my li’l frien’!

The glance at the Plip Plop Coffe Shop’s entrance didn’t entirely assure the Frisco Ninja that Uncle Joe was gone.
With full-frontal post-graduate diction, he asked askance, “Is the solipsistic scruff FINALLY on his way?”
Frisco’s intuition was unerring, as usual. Uncle Joe had made an example of New Jersey merely because he didn’t have much knowledge beyond the self.
“I’m afraid he is,” the mature beauty replied with sadness attributing to one less man for the sample set.
And Joe only knew New Jersey through the Guss family ritual of viewing The Sopranos together.
He’d wanted to lash out at the snobby East, but the other states that came to mind were New York, which the stuff of his Big Timer dreams often inhabited, and Florida and Cuba, from viewing SCARFACE frequently.
Beyond the West, Uncle Joe didn’t much care, and the West where he could remember the names was California and Nevada. All he knew about the Dakotas was from the middle school kids who hung by the Olds sometimes, who said they were some chick’s tits who was an actress. He knew Hawaii. Hawaii was like Super-California, and it stuck even though the adhesive in his brain was spent that Hawaii had gotten lucky, the last star crammed onto the American Flag.
“Maybe that’s it!” Joe exulted. If he could figure out how to align Cuba’s star, then baby Drew’d be saying, “I wish my name was Joe.” Finally getting all the states on Old Glory was a whole lot bigger than wasting a bunch of f___-face bicyle riders in a little Marin County town.
Ten steps closer to Larkspur, he shouted “Rambo!” Some mainstay shoppers who’d taken out caffe macchiatos to create a new day were startled, but not unsympathetic. It was how they felt when something new from Dolce e Gabbana dressed a village window.

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