Man-ipulation

As I was about to leave home early this afternoon, a black VW Golf 4 wheeled past with two ladies in it. They boomed their music so loud that it heaved the carpet of dust on the street into the air in tune with the beat. Something must have been disquieting about their style because the metal grille across a drain leapt up to bite the right rear tyre into shreds. It took the rompers longer than present narrator to hear the tugging tyre over the stadium sound, so they only came to a stop four blocks away. Now, I ordinarily would zip over to help damsels in distress, especially as one bounced gigantic jolly jugs in front of her. But I felt just like the barbaric grille, so I allowed my genteel graces to hide in the gutter. Two ladies all dressed up with somewhere to go to would not lift a fingernail after taking a gas cylinder out of the trunk. It was rare riotous to hear them trying hard to outmanoeuvre each other by pretending not to know that the frigging black pneumatic that lay fastened before their eyes was the spare tyre. As Maxine and I drove slowly past, I caught the man, who was school-boy eager to help them, addressing his questions to the chest level of things.