Scene: Emily and Sarah, sitting in Emily’s Honda Civic at a busy intersection, 9:30 on a summer night. An early ’90s Chevrolet Caprice pulls up next to us. There is a large sticker on the back window that reads “Parental Advisory: Explicit Lyrics.” The two gentlemen inside—not a day over 18—begin hooting and honking and revving their engine in some alternate-universe attempt to woo us.
Emily: Ohhhhh, boys. Boys boys boys boys boys. You have no idea what you’d be getting yourselves into.
Sarah: They probably wouldn’t be revving that engine so loudly if they knew we were just discussing how we were too fat for lace-up-the-front leather pants.