If you own any of Pinky's (or his alter-ego's) art that is framed and under glass, you should be very worried. Since his first attempts at framing, Pinky always discovered that it took at least three trys to get the glass clean enough. He tried brighter lights, getting more sleep, asking for friendly advice--all to no avail. The the glass would always be smudged on the inside. Then there would be a tiny bug leg, a speck of dust, something gooey. When finally the art was reassembled for the last time--dusted, hung carefully on the gallery wall--Pinky would stand back and proudly survey the wonders that he had created. (You know well enough by now that this is not how the story ends.)
Usually minutes before the adoring crowd was to pour through the door, Pinky's wife (or worse, the horrified art dealer) would tap him on the shoulder, and signal him to follow. Pinky's large barrel chest that he had thrown out like a fighting cock would slowly begin to deflate. His cocky walk slowed to the gait of a petulant child. Pinky knew what was about to come. It happened every time.
There, under the glass (pressed into a delicate curl and preserved forever), was yet another pubic hair.
