“Ah, it all comes back to me now,” gurgled our woozy smut hound. “God drew a veil before my eyes to shut out that evil spectacle.”
And lifting his fanny off the floor Herman pointed his forefinger at our heroine.
“You spawn of Hell,” he cried, “you painted Jezebel, don’t try to work your sinful wiles on me. I know you for what you are, a cigarette smoking, rum guzzling creature of the underworld. Begone to your devil’s lair. You soul wrecker luring innocent men to their doom with your corruptions.”
“Say,” Cutie broke in, “you poor kidney-footed clown, you one-eyed leftover, how do you get that way? What Lost Manhood advertisement have you been reading? Go on, get back into your manhole before some enterprising undertaker lays a lamp on you.”
“Me trying to lure you,” Cutie continued, having taken a fresh breath. “I would just as soon get amorous with a blue-nosed Mandril. A gimp like you takes my appetite away for a week. Come on, beat it, poison ivy, before I start calling you any hard names.”
At this point, Herman Pupick turned on his heel and walked out of the bookstore, leaving his vis-a-vis flat.
But when our hero reached his dove cote that evening, he felt strangely disturbed.
“Emmaline,” he said to his fellow sufferer, “have you ever had a splinter in your knee?”
“Herman! How dare you!” cried Mrs. Pupick, blushing violently. “Do you think that sort of talk is fit for the home?”
“No,” said Herman, a wave of shame covering him like a pail of dishwater. An hour later Herman and the dementia praecox case were kneeling beside their sleeping bags requesting God all over again to keep them pure.