Some-Hoas and Greenbacks

Madge is always looking for ways to increase her cash flow. Take, for example, the knock-off Girl Scout cookie scam she's got us whoaring. Two old drunk women aren't the look we needed to dump our Ponzi petite fours. But once we donned appropriate skirts, we looked almost passable, except for Madge. She looked better as a Boy Scout. It's a look, don't you agree?

We shuffled our sweaty asses toward Santa Monica Boulevard, our wagons piled with second-rate goodies for the catty queens of West Hollywood. Coconut Vah JJ's, Shin Splints, Titty Twisters, Peanutbutter Pasties, Some-Hoahs, Chocolate Bunions, Golden Showers, and Finger Bangs to get your gag reflex working.
Madge's heel spurs were acting up, and we took a break in front of a, duh, gay bar in the delicious shade. Madge called out to the bulked-up cocktail hooker and ordered needed liquid courage. A well-manicured gent across the railing asked what I was selling; then, Madge cleared her throat loudly.
"Why cookies, of course," not missing my cue.
Mr. Manicure spins around to the bar and shouts over the music, "these old bitches have cookies!"

Drunk, hangry queens dropped their salad forks and Aperol spritzers and ran to the railing waving their credit cards. In no time, we're sitting at the patio, clinking glasses with the community that took care of us.

I looked around the patio and smiling faces and caught Madge's eye.
"We're all misfits aren't we?"
Madge toasted my glass, "that's how it works, Bisket. That's why we're friends." I smiled wide and sat back, listening to the drama and stories told by our new friends.

Be prepared, kids. A great day can happen when you least expect it.

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