“If I wanted a rodeo,” Buckington said. “I’d just ride over to the fairgrounds and buy it. And for the Hollywood sign, I’d just keep the ‘woody’ part, and throw the rest away. Wait… I’ll keep the ‘holl’ part too so I can use it at Butt Hoals. Goddamn, it’s amazing the kinda shit I think up.”

“Truer words were never spoken,” Sue said, throwing her Phillies baseball cap at him. “In fact, you should open a business called Butt Hoals Holls Holes Wholes, a quadruple gentleman’s club, with Asscrack Jack as the spiffy D.J. introducing the go-go hags, Whore Hay recruiting men for Fuckingham Palace, Doobie sellin’ weed in his own little kiosk in the corner, and Pecker Crabbs, shooting porn videos in the upstairs brothel. You could legalize prostitution, and moonshine in Butt, and become the biggest slobs since Larry Flynt, met Al fuckin’ Capone.”

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