Fugl’ Mama

I guess when a lady turns 21, she has to give up gallivanting around like she’s a giant infant or the Mad Hatter’s girl-on-the-side, in favor of what might well be a shredded unitard and a tip jar sewn to her breast. If I stuff in a fiver, do you think she’d open her coat and confirm for me what the hell that IS under there? Or is that kind of like paying for someone to flash me? Maybe I’ll just put in a buck and suggest that she go to the mall.