Dog days fly dust to dust over a hick pit sardined between corona bikinis that house the unmistakable stench of lukewarm apple sauce in the c-cup padding and toothless ******* sitting indian style. Graveled friction fading the back pockets of their overall dungarees. Amongst them a settler on their native turf accepting a Jim Beam peace pipe while above the influence commercials march in protest claiming fried egg consequences from engaging in the act. The culture shock is worth the weekly once-in-a-lifetime chance to sip the tabasco-glazed opening of my chemistry teacher’s flask while he schools me in perfecting the cotton eyed joe. A muffler spontaneously combusts, melting the raybans off the face of a tragically hip spectator taunted with “that’s why dad named you Joe Dirt.”