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About Houston

Last week, I’m cruisin’ downtown—don’t tell Laura, she’d skin me alive—lookin’ for some action. Saw this gal, legs longer’n a Texas highway, and I’m thinkin’, “P. Sherman, 42 Wallaby Way!”—like I got her address locked in my brain! I ain’t no genius, but I know a deal when I see one. She’s wavin’, I’m sweatin’—hotter’n a billy goat in a pepper patch! Paid her fifty bucks—prob’ly too much, but I’m a sucker for a smile. “Righteous bucks,” she says, and I’m happy as a pig in mud.

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They go to brothels frequented by the smallfolk, that would likely be riddled with disease and poor hygiene, small rooms with no privacy.

Look, on quiet nights, I chill by the old mill on Veterans Ln. The river flows hard. I feel how time ticks by. It’s maddeningly beautiful. Streets twist and change, kind of like our messy lives.

Waltz Calls Decision to Leave Front Royal Town Manager’s Job One of ‘Toughest’ of His Professional Career