It was a scene straight out of a Rockwell painting, if Rockwell had been addicted to absinthe.

Four men stood at the edge of a precipice.  The four were as unique as snowflakes, if snowflakes had excessive body odor and hairy backs.  The first, a tall, addled looking mass of middle age with a head the size of a ripe watermelon, grunted.  The man next to him, a shorter fellow given to portliness and the affected air of the soon-to-be well-to-do, burped.  To his right and rooted to the earth via his own gravitas, another tall, dark haired man with a perpetually smarmy smirk silently gazed into the abyss, and sighed.  The last of the four, a tall blond man with a particularly simian visage, scratched.

Big Head:  “What to do, what to do.  It’s Saturday night and we’re all staring into the abyss, a vast wasteland of nothingness.”

Well-to-do: “Well, I heard there’s a crack outfit playing some rocking tunes at Trio’s Tavern.”

Smirk:  “That’s right, I heard same, and the drummer is supposed to be a chick magnet!”

Simian:  “Anybody got a banana?”

Big Head:  “Well, what are we waiting for?  If it’s good, they’ll be chicks aplenty.”

Well-to-do:  “Certainly, we should be able to obtain some fine cold adult beverages and tasty comestibles in that fine establishment, all the while enjoying the groovy tunes provided by THE DECK BAND.”

Smirk:  “Hmm, stare into the abyss, or enjoy Trio’s with the Deck Band?  Road trip!”

Big Head:  “Shotgun!”

Simian:  “Hey, how’d your head get so big?”