Most plants thrive on animal waste, but I’m afraid this mutation possesses an appetite for the animal itself.
It’s a mutation. A very groovy mutation.
Hey there, groovy chicks. You’re all hep in far out ways
Give me a head with hair, long beautiful hair, shining gleaming steaming flaxen waxen. Give me it down to there, hair, shoulder length or longer, here, baby, there, mamma, everywhere, daddy daddy hair! Flow it, show it, long as God can grow it, my hair!
The old tactician has got a plan. For the transportation that is, I don’t know how I’m gonna keep my coiffure in order.
Do you know what I found yesterday? Hair in my ear. I’m losing hair where I want hair and getting hair where there shouldn’t be hair. I found four big fat ones on my back. I’m starting to look like The Fly!
Hair like Jesus wore it. Hallelujah! I adore it!
Hey, man. All we represent to them, man, is somebody who needs a haircut.
See, in my day, a barber was more than just somebody who sit around in a FUBU shirt with his drawers hanging all out. In my day, a barber was a counselor. He was a fashion expert. A style coach. Pimp. Just general all-around hustler. But the problem with y’all cats today, is that you got no skill. No sense of history. And then, with a straight face, got the nerve to want to be somebody. Want somebody to respect you. But it takes respect to get respect. Understand? See, I’m old. But, Lord willing, I’d be spared the sight of seeing everything that we worked for flushed down the drain by someone who don’t know no better or care
Now maybe if you’re eleven or twelve years old, Frank’s got an interesting point of view, but sometimes it got on my nerves. Not that I’d complain, mind you. Like I said, he was the principal barber. Frank’s father August–they called him Guzzi–had worked the heads up in Santa Rosa for thirty-five years until his ticker stopped in the middle of a Junior Flat Top. He left the shop to Frankie free and clear. And that seemed to satisfy all of Frank’s ambitions: cutting the hair and chewing the fat. Me, I don’t talk much…
Just because my grandfather didn’t rape the environment and exploit the workers doesn’t make me a peasant. And it’s not that he didn’t WANT to rape the environment and exploit the workers- I’m sure he did. It’s just that, as a barber, he didn’t have that much opportunity.
You’re like the drunken, abusive grandfather I never had!
My mama used to say that America’s the big melting pot. You bring it to a boil and all the scum rises to the top.
You go ahead and eat that, Mr. Frodo.
You’ll eat it and like it.
I don’t “like” food, I LOVE it. If I don’t love it, I don’t swallow.
Hungry?! Shit, I could eat a frozen dog.
A dog is a fine meal.
And afterwards… a waffer-thin mint!
Ever go out for cheeseburgers and beer? The amusing house wine?