Downstairs the teevee was playing the Beverly Hillbillies.
It was the episode where Jethro fancied himself a secret agent capable of manifesting innumerable methodologies especially designed to thwart the communists and their minions—who looked just like Natasha and Boris Badanov, not the cartoon characters, but for realz, yo.
Mr. Drysdale's wife rolled over on the Mayflower, flashing Red Sox memorabilia, fabulous bling and a custom-made fur coat. One of Ellie Mae's pet bears—which looked suspiciously like a flattened photo emulsion when viewed through special eyeglasses exclusively available through publications like Popular Mechanics and the Radio Shack Catalog—ran for cover but collapsed in front of the cement pond.
Loose yellow music was pouring out of a cigarette on the other side of the room, just like smoke, rougher but prettier. And the light from the teevee kept flickering and flickering.
Over there in a world that never really existed, the double-naught agent from the land of large fruit-laden palm trees and hearty, two-cow breakfasts sped off towards the city in search of a new kind of kick. I wanna get hog mad, he gravely intoned, headed toward North Hollywood in a ramshackle truck with broken skateboards for tires.