Sally didn’t drive a Mustang. She rode the bus. Today she sat across from a smelly man with a bag of white socks and whose head might have contained three teeth that were harder than sharp provolone.
Sally wasn’t long and tall. She was short and short. I guess those words share an antonym.
And unlike that other song, Sally could dance.
She polkaed to stay on her feet when the bus stopped more quickly than she had anticipated. She performed a ballet sauté over a beige handbag which was infested with the letters MK. She threw up jazz hands to get the driver to open the goddamned door.
Sally walked up to the third floor of her crooked brick building and paused. There was a man’s belt hanging loosely on the door knob. She held her ear to the door and sure enough she heard it: smooching. She tried to tie the soft toothed sock peddler in with the old sock on the door code in a comedic fashion, but couldn’t tell which of her invented jokes, if any, were funny.
That’s the problem with knowing the punchlines in advance. The jokes are all contrived.
Sally opened the door slowly and jingled her keys at a farcical level.