It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a crazy old woman in possession of a trailer in Anderson, CA must be in want of meth.
“Perhaps if I tell Mr. Saeed, uh, I mean Mr. Paul, things he (and everyone in the known universe) already knows, he’ll finally take me out behind the woodshed and give me some meth! Or at least a deep dicking,” thought the crazy old woman.
“Mr. Paul! Mr. Paul!” she screamed, running after him down the cobblestone street, wearing her least tattered, least filthy, least odorous burlap sack, “Coccyx lives in GEORGIA!!”
“We’ve known that for years, you filthy crone! Away with you! I must get into the whore Eri’s pants forthwith! I hear she bathes at least once a month!” he replied, and scurried off with his hand down his trouser placquet.
With no meth, no dicking, and no prospects, the nameless old lady died penniless and unloved in the gutter.