6Sunday the d**k slept late. I had a slight hangover from boozing it up the night before and fatigue from dealing with my client Mr. Baker, c******n Charlie, and Fatso at the museum. Chasing a bus hadn't helped either. Besides that—as if that weren't enough—my gut felt funny from all the Spam and peanuts I had consumed. Gotta learn that Spam and peanuts just don't mix.
When I finally crawled out of bed around 2:30, the day was half shot. By this hour people had returned home from church and fire-and-brimstone sermons. And, I thought, if they were among the lucky ones not out of work during this awful depression, they were well into their regular Sunday meal of chicken, mashed potatoes, peas, and chocolate cake.
I yawned, stretched, scratched myself and headed for the john to take care of
