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asshole’s wife, because she is yelling at him.
    4.A fat kid wearing some kind of douchebaggy silver suit, who’s crying, and right away I know this is the asshole’s kid, because (a) he looks like him, and (b) he’s a douchebag.
    The asshole sees me, and he stops short.
    â€œWhat are you doing here?” he says.
    â€œWhat are
you
doing here?” I say, which I admit was not a good comeback, but I didn’t have anything prepared.
    He says, “I’m here to watch my son’s dance recital.”
    I look at his son and say, “What’s he supposed to be, Elton John as a refrigerator?”
    â€œWhat’s
that
supposed to mean?” says the wife.
    â€œHe’s Sonny Corleone,” says the asshole.
    â€œHe’s WHO?”
    â€œIt’s interpretive,” says the asshole.
    â€œOh yeah,” I say. “I can definitely see the Corleone family following Sonny here into battle. ‘Come on, fellows! We have to go to the mattresses.’” Only I’m lisping, so it comes out “fellowth” and “mattretheth.”
    This really pisses off the asshole’s wife. She’s in my face, yelling, “Just who the hell do you think you . . .”
    Then we hear a slamming sound, which is Denise shutting the door of her Range Rover. The asshole hustles over and pounds on the window. She lowers it, but only a half inch.
    â€œDenise,” he says, trying to sound calm, which he is not. “Give me the lemur.”
    â€œGIVE ME MY INSULIN PUMP!” she says.
    â€œI don’t
have
your insulin pump.”
    It occurs to me that the asshole doesn’t know that Buddy left it in his Prius. I’m about to point this out, but before I can say anything, Denise holds Buddy up by his tail and screams, “THEN YOUR FUCKING LEMUR IS GOING OFF THE GEORGE FUCKING WASHINGTON BRIDGE.” She stomps the gas and fishtails out of the parking lot.
    â€œSTOP!” the asshole is screaming. “THAT IS AN ENDANGERED ANIMAL!” He’s gimping as fast as he can toward his Prius. I head for my car and get in just as the Prius leaves the parking lot. I put the pedal to the floor and am right behind, the asshole and me weaving through traffic, trying to catch up with Denise, who is driving like a maniac.
    My cell rings. It’s Donna.
    â€œWhat,” I say.
    â€œDid you find Denise?” she says.
    â€œYes.” Up ahead Denise is getting on I-95.
    â€œSo she’s okay? She got her pump?”
    â€œUm, not yet.” Denise is weaving across four lanes. The asshole is staying as close as he can, but he’s having trouble keeping up in the Prius, which has basically the same motor as a food processor.
    â€œWhat do you mean not yet?” says Donna. “Is there a problem?”
    â€œListen, this is a bad time, okay? I’ll call you right back.”
    In the background, I hear Taylor saying something to Donna. Up ahead I see Denise’s arm, which is the size of my leg, sticking out the Range Rover window. She has something in her hand. She’s waving it around so the asshole can see it.
    It’s Buddy.
    Donna says, “Taylor wants to know if Buddy is okay.”
    â€œTell her Buddy’s fine,” I say, and hang up.

CHAPTER 9
    Philip
    I have absolutely no complaints about my penis. While neither exceptionally long nor formidable in girth, it has performed all duties admirably. It’s sired two children, has sexually satisfied a wife on those special occasions when we enjoy a romp in the hay for purposes other than procreation, and has regularly expelled liquid waste from my system without even once waking me up from a night’s sleep to do so.
    Consequently, I have never been one of those guys with a need to compensate by driving either a souped-up or pimped-out car. Hence, my Prius. It gets me where I want to go, has an AM radio, and the fact that it’s eco-friendly (fifty-five miles