(Something I wrote over a decade ago. I was tickled rereading it, so I want you to be tickled for the first time.)

After kissing Ms. Freckles, he had to gurgle with bourbon.  He climbed out her window and fell in an expectant azalea bush.  While lying in the dirt, he came across Ms. Thighs.  Her thighs could strangle water; thus, he pondered Original Sin, baptism, and his own mortality.  Because both he and night had fallen, he left and searched.  Finding Ms. Eyes, he informed her that her father was a thief.  She knew where it was going, so she invited him home, made him dinner, and told him to go to hell.  Thoughts of the Final Judgment and eternity sent him running—right into Ms. Hair.  Through strands of mammalian pride, they discussed the theology of the body.  He remarked that dangling protein can only account for so much, and then he split.  After noticing Ms. Breasts sitting across the bar from him, he brought her a drink and himself an excuse.  Wondering if a correlation exists between buoyancy and the dignity of the individual, he poured his beer on her tits.  Upon being bounced out the door, he realized that a disordered appetite usually craves a place to sit down and the infinite.  In the gutter, he discovered a dying cat and Ms. I’ve Had Everybody Before You.  She reminded him that it is who one is sleeping with who matters.  He asked her if remembering is an act of love and then told her to forget it, babe.  Stumbling back to his apartment, he encountered Mrs. He.  He confessed to her that pronouns and abstractions cannot develop much further without a prior commitment to particulars.