Exercise: the long sentence

He asked her if her breasts were real, and with an inner monologue she sighed and mentally stooped because she knew with the utmost certainty that this was clearly an attempt to convey confidence by being provocative and brutally honest but on the inside he was more than likely completely insecure about his looks and value as a human being and wondered deep down in places not hazed and fogged by alcoholic stupor that maybe he lacked the courage to approach any woman while sober so that in the end he could always blame the booze and the slurred speech instead of his freely chosen white-trash-bred, double wide trailer owning, truck that won’t start in the cold, laid off from the mill, tube top loving, beer belly having, dumb dog walking, bad fish tackle possessing  lot; so against her better judgment, a judgment also frequently sacrificed at the altar of booze in the kinds of bars that served drinks like Wild Turkey with Mountain Dew along with fried foods like jalapeno poppers and low-buck bloomin’ onions,  she answered him, with the same kind of disdain and remorse that she had answered so many sloppy drunk, crumb bearded, rough handed men so many times before in bars such as this one in the middle of nowhere with the beat up cars in the parking lot and the country music blaring from the jukebox, weed dealing in the restroom, where it is not a question of will there be a fight at the end of the night but who will get arrested and who will wind up in the Emergency Room with something as small as missing teeth or as serious as internal bleeding, “it doesn’t matter if they are real or fake to someone like you, drunk on a barstool at 7pm with shitty breath, bad teeth, of the ones you still do have which as your luck would have it are mostly in the back, with a liver yellow enough the doctors mistook it for a deformed lemon, trying to make ends meet working at the Kmart and the Jiffy Lube but having  a hard time paying off the trailer, you know the one with all the pork rind crumbs surrounding the piss and shit stained recliner in front of the TV connected to the rabbit ears on top of the leaky roof that covers the propane powered kitchen you never use because you get by on salt, cheese, and slim jims when you aren’t splurging your welfare check on bullets and Jim Beam, oh and also let’s not forget your own man breasts there sitting on top of your Busch Light beer belly like a couple of bean bags duct taped to a beach ball, with a dick limp enough to double for a loosely filled tortilla, the same kind you might get at 3am tonight from the Taco Bell you know and love so much, that will stain the wife beater shirt with taco sauce and cheese , so much so that you will only wear it fishing and to work and nights out on the town, never mind of course the ear and nostril hair you apparently clipped with a dull weed whacker or should I not assume you have a weed whacker because the grounds in your park are taken care of, to the point where you might find a 6 cylinder or a 55 gallon drum of transmission fluid if the weeds were mowed once a summer but why should you care about any of that when my breasts are here for you to wonder about, stare at, and ask me about, with the hope that maybe, just maybe, if I should turn up to be dumb enough, or drunk enough, or alone enough, you might get to see or feel them for yourself in a backseat or a truck bed or maybe even a single mattress on a linoleum floor down at Jimmy’s by the quarry which could lead to maybe even you getting luckier than a hot new scratch off from the gas station and going even further than you did with that mute hair dresser you met at the welfare office because you filled out your paperwork wrong but that probably won’t happen because you just don’t have the gumption to give a shit enough to take care of yourself, let alone my real or fake breasts."