Every evening, about 7:20, he roars up the street on his hog, gunning the unmuffled engine. For years I resented the aural assault. But now it’s become a ritual of the day. “There he goes,” we point. “It’s small penis man.”
Every evening, about 7:20, he roars up the street on his hog, gunning the unmuffled engine. For years I resented the aural assault. But now it’s become a ritual of the day. “There he goes,” we point. “It’s small penis man.”