A shapely, shimmering feminine silhouette somewhere in the distance kept interrupting my stupor. A woman, no, a sex goddess came into focus. Dang, I felt spaced out and recalled downing a quart jar of bad corn liquor slap dab in the middle of Big Earl’s House of Porn and Bait Shoppe before the light faded. The goddess was shapely Lucille and she slipped up close. Oh, lord her endowments felt good. “You finished your predictions yet, Nostradamus, Jr.?” she purred.