Every now and then another blood vessel would harden in Helen Petermanns brain, and give fresh non-Nazi cells a chance to run things for awhile. Such a wonderous occasion happened near the July 4th weekend on the year of our Lord Nineteen Hundred and Seventy Eight. I had finished with lunch, and sat there contemplating whether or not to nail the chick sitting 3 seats deep in the second row with the remaining cubes of ice still in my cup, for narking on me for checking out the new girls, or savoring the last of the coolness in my mouth. Suddenly the Prehistoric outlines of Mrs. Petes enormous coiffure entered my field of vision as she sauntered up to the front of the group. Her bombadier blue eyes gazed back and forth across the guys side like a searchlight. She had heard that with the addition of a guy named Mark Bell, that we now had guys who looked like all four of the Monkees and wanted to see for herself if it was true. She called on these guys and they all came up front of the group. It was sorta like a contest, because we had three guys that could have passed for Davey. I was nominated to be a Peter Tork look-a-like, but because I had been being a jerk, I had to sit down. After about a half hour of haggling, they settled on four finalists and she had them do that arm & arm, leg over leg thing while we sang the Monkee's Theme. Here we were, all happy go lucky, even the short scrappy Italian chick that had been brought to group after splitting the program carried to her seat "alligator style" seemed happy to be there. Something was'nt right, I felt and began looking behind the group towards the front of the warehouse and staff offices. Them dumbasses should have never let me sit in the back, because I saw who all of this was for. Marshal Cleaver, a promonent radio announcer and talk show host for WLCY studios. I just wish he had been there 3 days earlier when this psycho girl named Susan had burst from the group, leaped into a perfect swan dive and landed on her face, sliding along the concrete like a freshly clubbed baby seal. Where was Geraldo Rivera when we needed him?
