War, war against pants never changes. One man. One bare bottom. A crapbucket load of grenades stored under a hat. They told me to get dressed, I blew their waist off. The Mojave desert is full of these barbaric creatures, even after the nukes eradicated most of the sins of mankind they still refuse to make it a paradise like before Adam and Eve wrongfully consumed an apple of knowledge. To add additional salt to the wound I bare witness to horribly twisted mutants that share the same desire to cover up the rear. They too, will be blessed by the holy handgrenade. I will never cease my sneak and plant until every bottom is gone or free. It's like I always say "If you have a back pocket, I will soon loosen your hip socket".