"Who better?" he spat a third time, jabbing his cane in the direction of some riff raff. Johnson would sleep well tonight, he always did when he got riled up slightly early in the day.
"Rheumatism," he coughed, with compunction. "Blasted foul beasts!" he yammered, awkwardly kicking at some pigeons.
Kicking, he felt the familiar and comforting tug of his Space-Ghost underwear against his loin. It pinched his manhood with the crisp bite of unwashed cotton.
"I'll cut the confounded bugger off if it continues to devil me this way!" he muttered, one hand working furiously at his privates in an attempt to gain some relief.
Finally, with great struggle he released his knobby, pink cobra by slicing open the frontispiece of his pantaloons with a piece of glass he had picked from the streets.
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