He knew when he slipped on those completely stupid shades the neon pink would envelope him like the abrasive arms of an insipid mother treating her infant with creationist myths. He realized upon the don of these shadez that the man he'd become would be found tangled among the brambles the next morning, screaming. Or, perhaps, found marooned upon the beach tied to a buoy, screaming. No doubt it would be the morning when he'd be found. It would be stylish and sexy and slippery like whale skin. Sopping, dripping, sudsy little wastrel keen on losing the mainstream to forge a new crystallized passion path of glitz: He'd open his eyes fluttering and crooked capped red skinned saps would shackle his wrists for he would be too metropolitan for this world. Luckily, the cage they will put him in will have two doors and a dual vestibule design. This to encourage sexual visiters to come in through the front, leave through the back. That's just to avoid confusion. Those staring through the bars, blowing kisses, can't seem to get it straight when there are people coming and going through the same door. Entrance and exit are distinctions of clarity. They mustn't be blurred. He knows if these lines are crossed, all will be lost. If these lines are crossed, he won't have a sensuous saunter as he creeps down the street: he won't have a dazzling effect on every little thing that enters his raunch radar and he definitely won't leave an impression upon the daughters of governors left dying on the vine. And we all know those daughters are the ones that keep the bullet holes from taking down the careening Ford Bronco stitched upon his heart. How cool is the coolest of all speeding recreational vehicles? One mustn't think too hard upon this point. Unless, of course, one has created some sort of simulacrum that shields from the realities of a high speed blast down a stupid road; the notion of cool, for example.