“Cause we hate A-rabs and queers and don’t believe in flushing little babies down the toilet or selling their pieces and parts to medical science. We love apple pie, buffalo wings, Budweiser, and Jesus. Oh, yeah—and fucking. Give me what I came here for and I’ll shut up and go home.”

“As a psychiatrist, I’ve always said know yourself. But not so with you, my dear. I recommend you do your best not to know yourself at all.”

“One thing’s for sure,” Shandy says snidely. “Marino sure got over you when he got all over me.”

“He did exactly what I predicted. He thought with the wrong head,” Dr. Self says.

“You may be as rich and famous as Oprah, but all the power and glory in the world can’t turn on a man like I do. I’m young and sweet and know what they want, and I can keep going as long as they can and make them go a lot longer than they ever dreamed they could,” Shandy says.

“Are you talking about sex or the Kentucky Derby?”

“I’m talking about you being old,” Shandy says.

“Perhaps I should have you on my show. Such fascinating questions I could ask. What men see in you. What magical musk you must exude to keep them following you like your own rounded ass. We’ll display you just as you are right now, in black leather pants as tight as the peel on a plum, and a denim jacket with nothing under it. Of course, your boots. And the piece de resistance—a do-rag that looks as if it’s on fire. Shopworn, to put it kindly, but it belongs to your poor friend who was just in a terrible accident. My audience would find it touching that you wear his do-rag around your neck and say you won’t take it off until he gets better. I’m reluctant to tell you that when a head is cracked open like an egg and the brain is exposed to the environment, which includes pavement, it’s fairly serious.”

Shandy drinks.