What I wouldn't give to be a greaser. The life's all about hot rods and hotter broads, pomade and pompadours. I've wanted to be a greaser since the first time I saw The Outsiders. Like my uncle used to say, though, I have "wavy hair" -- my one hair in the front waves to the one in the back -- and I don't have the gaunt frame that looks good in a tight white T-shirt and a pair of 501s. Truth is, I'm a bald fatass. Adding insult to injury, my old lady has a thing for greasers -- especially Elvis, whose face she has tattooed on her leg and whose picture is on her myspace page, along with the inscription "my man." Yes, sir, Sweetie's all about that retro shit. So you can bet your sweet ass I'm not taking her anywhere near the Hornet this Saturday, June 10, when the Mighty 18 Wheeler throws down. For one thing, I don't have a clue how to dance to the ferocious rockabilly those fellas churn out. And for another, well, I'm afraid that Jimmy "Slappindaddy" Kolodziej and his crew just might steal my best gal. In which case we'd have to rumble.
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