For grafs like this:
I bought some taco shells before leaving; the clerk, an immense creature who resembled a six-foot soft-serve ice cream treat, asked howr you. I said “damp.” She gave me a look of such unbelievably bovine incomprehension I almost apologized for not saying “fine.” It was almost a warning: don’t get fancy. We don’t take to fancy here. That’s one of the reasons I don’t go to that grocery store anymore. They hired the clerks from the cast party of a Fellini movie and ran them through a Hee-Haw filter, then eliminated the ones who were so antisocial they had fewer than three tattoos of their children’s names on their arms.
I can’t wait to see the novel.