Deadhorse. Not exactly an enticing name for a location, but hey, this is America. You buy some property, build on it, make it a place on a map, and you can name it any damned thing you like. Blue Ball. Intercourse. Beaver. (All real places.) Hell, you can just Americanize a foreign word or name and change the pronunciation, like the French, "Dubois." It sounds lovely as the maiden name of Blanche in A Street Car Named Desire. 'Dew-bwah.' Now, pretend that you're a giddy, 12 year old who gets a kick from anything that sounds remotely naughty, and you get the name of a lovely, little hamlet in Pennsylvania by the name of . . . wait for it . . . 'DO-BOYS!' The snickering can last for days. The point being, the name of a place doesn't have to coincide with what goes on there, it just helps the place to be remembered at all.

Born into the family business, that's how some describe their occupations. "My father's, father's, father . . . ," so on and so on. Pride can be taken from keeping up the family business. To be so proud that it encourages foolhardiness is a chance one takes with such pride. Many celebrities are driven to such pride and status that they let little things about them out that they wished they hadn't. Those little things snowball until they feel it's their (lucrative) responsibility to let the world know what it's like to step into their lives and see exactly what it's like to be with them. Even if others really with them would like to be kept out of the spotlight. Sometimes, that gives those who would do harm just the edge they need to take the prideful down.

You ever have one of those days where you just wake up in a haze? Not in a "Man, I think I did one Jagerbomb too many" haze, but the kind where you can barely figure out how to work your way out of the sheets. Our protagonist, the 'firefighter,' comes to in a similar fashion, he just needs to work his way out of a body bag. Trying to scrape the scum off his brain and clear it out until he can remember what he's supposed to be doing that day, he wanders through the street to the local bank to grab some cash. He remembers. Barbeque. Gotta buy provisions, plus there's the chance the hot bank teller is working today. Then, of course, the bank gets held up. Ain't it always the way? There are a few things with which you never interfere a man. Don't mess with his money, don't be a C-blocker, and don't get in the way of his hunger. Especially that last one. You never can tell what a man might do when his life and hunger are backed against a wall. Even if he's dead.

Someone sits across from you on the bus or at the bar. Walking down the street, you pass by that certain someone in the neighborhood who has always seems "off" to you in some way. As you intersect, just as the opportunity has all but diminished, you glance up to see them inspecting you out of more than just the corner of their eye. There is always that person. That person that views the world the same as you, but maybe the details are what doesn't match up, or they are catching something you chose not to notice. That's the feeling Milk for the Ugly elicited from me. Then again, who's to say that's what it wants.