Still, the girls were really, really beautiful. And mad-looking. And the clothes—embroidered gaucho pants and ice-cream-rainbow dresses—were mostly adorable. You could buy them if you so chose. That is, except for the brown-leather bikini bra worn over a wifebeater; that was, like a Kate Hudson film, trying for kooky—or perhaps Derelicte—way too hard. You know what they say: Derelicte . . . my balls. You know: in the name of love.

Do you know me? well do ya, punk?

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