Oh, and by the way, whatever happened to truth in advertising? I mean, what parallel universe do those “Place Called Perfect” people over at Walgreens reside in? I can guarantee you they’ve never been to the one on the corner of St. Claude and Elysian Fields. As far as I’m concerned, this is a mystery of biblical proportions, right up there with gay Republicans and small business owners appearing in their own commercials.
But I digress.
The point is, as a preacher’s kid and basically decent human being, I cannot in good conscience join the Big Fat Liars Club, even if it means no first draft check. Or for that matter, no publisher. Even if it means picking through cartons of rotten fruit at the end of Marigny Street after the wholesale produce hub closes as the undocumented workers being whisked back to Lowe’s look on from the beds of rusty pick-ups, rethinking their own American dream.