spray-on violence

Five pm. The sun is still high in the sky, but the jar of evening is ready to tip its dark oily contents over the surface of the earth. And then there's the whole shitcan of Tuesday being handed down as we speak. Palinode comes home from the grocery store.

Palinode: [holding a jar of peanut butter freshly plucked from the bag] Ah, I forgot to buy bread.

Schmutzie: Damn.

Palinode: But given the peanut butter, we can be assured that as soon as there's more bread, there will be a gallon of peanut butter sandwiches.

Schmutzie: That's sticky eating.

Palinode: And I forgot to pick up more spray-on tan.

Schmutzie: That's not – well, okay.

Palinode: Yeah, I drank, like, the last half of the bottle yesterday.

Schmutzie: HA! I mean gross.

Palinode: Most people don't know that spray-on tan is 95% amphetamines and painkillers. When you absorb it through the skin it promotes a sense of well-being to distract you from that ghastly colour you've painted yourself. But when you drink it, you get the full effect.

Schmutzie: Orange poop?

Palinode: Tanned insides! Plus you can beat up a half dozen security guards and not feel a thing for two days.

Schmutzie: I'm in it for the orange poop.