Chapter One:

Herbert Lincoln Jefferson stared disgustedly
at his wife Marge. She sprawled
on a couch in front of the television, legs apart, displaying fat white thighs,
eating an orange so that the juice dribbled down her chin, and holding a beer
can from which she took occasional swigs. She was wearing a blue cotton dress
which was so tight that it had split under one arm. Her huge bosom hung in a
dirty white bra which peeked through the split. A stranger seeing her would
have found it hard to judge her age, and perhaps assessed her as ten years
older than she was. Actually she was thirty-five....