SFW is finally resigned to the fact that everything he wears... makes him look fat. 

NoEnz likes to tell people he used to stop traffic just by wearing the right pair of shorts.

But really it was the nine-inch acrylic stilettos, clown wig, and Richard Nixon codpiece that did all the heavy lifting.

"back in my day," said islander around another lipful of chaw, "we used to hang them whadyacallit, them fancy French hats from our license plate holders. that was so's e'ryone and 'er six hottest cousins could know we weren't poxy and had good mouths for kissin' and such. o'course, that was before all this new-faddled women's lib stuff. now you'd have to be a bona-fide Romeo Valentino and give 'er three references that said you wasn't a slobbering, globbering fool with lips like a week-old perch before you could so much as look at 'er neck. that's all as it should be, o'course. but at least we had good men like Lincoln and Hayes and Cottontail in the White House, and not a one of them wasn't a true-blue Ford man. even that dang fool Sherman T. Halliday, who was Sec'tary o' Horse Sense, drove an Edsel thirty miles a day between Washington and Idaho."

He spat, and the spittoon rang like a church bell. "Cherry pit in that one, no lie."

His old linen-hound Sourball cocked one brass ear, then went back to napping at his feet. The flag on his hand-carved tail fluttered gently in the breeze.

Islander looked off into the middle distance, as if the past were no more distant than that grove of alder where the Rotarians were buried after the last softball game.

"Anyhaw, you just come back for your nickel on that Coke bottle some other day. It's Wednesday, and that's for fishin' and stillin'."

"back in my day," said islander around another lipful of chaw, "we used to hang them whadyacallit, them fancy French hats from our license plate holders. that was so's e'ryone and 'er six hottest cousins could know we weren't poxy and had good mouths for kissin' and such. o'course, that was before all this new-faddled women's lib stuff. now you'd have to be a bona-fide Romeo Valentino and give 'er three references that said you wasn't a slobbering, globbering fool with lips like a week-old perch before you could so much as look at 'er neck. that's all as it should be, o'course. but at least we had good men like Lincoln and Hayes and Cottontail in the White House, and not a one of them wasn't a true-blue Ford man. even that dang fool Sherman T. Halliday, who was Sec'tary o' Horse Sense, drove an Edsel thirty miles a day between Washington and Idaho."

He spat, and the spittoon rang like a church bell. "Cherry pit in that one, no lie."

His old linen-hound Sourball cocked one brass ear, then went back to napping at his feet. The flag on his hand-carved tail fluttered gently in the breeze.

Islander looked off into the middle distance, as if the past were no more distant than that grove of alder where the Rotarians were buried after the last softball game.

"Anyhaw, you just come back for your nickel on that Coke bottle some other day. It's Wednesday, and that's for fishin' and stillin'."