I was a pushover, OK… and who’d ever blame
me, the impressionable little innocent sitting on
the floor in front of the TV, waiting out the
sitcoms for his favorite commercial to return…
and then… there she was… in living black-and-
white, waltzing around in her white high-heel
majorette boots made for walkin’ on a pair of
shapely gams that’d make Sam Spade stutter…
legs that went all the way up (to the only other
thing she had on) (in my mind)… that three-
foot-high pack-of-Old-Golds costume…
(Wolfwhistle!)
And I guess there was no question I was gonna
give smoking a try… her hurdy-gurdy leaving me
longing to ditch my hayseed family values and run
off with her— Oh, I’d be her cute little red-coated
bellhop performing tricks… like the very ultra-cool
popping the ol’ Zippo cover with a single finger-snap,
Hey-presto: the blue-orange finger of flame! Or
blowing smoke rings through smoke rings through
smoke rings… or flaunting that ol’ ‘French inhale’
and then, like some sexy fire-breathing dragon,
releasing the smoke, seductively from my nostrils’
dual exhaust… Oh, I was gonna be so cool...
I’d be fighting the girls off with a broom!