I knew a guy named Sal, once. Everytime I would see him I'd yell out, "Hey Sal! You're the man! The Sal-man!" We would both laugh as if the moment would never end, as the sun waned in the late summer evening.
Those innocent days were the best times of our lives, and we would soon come to appriciate their loss when the events of the war reared it's ugly head onto our quaint villiage of the greater Los Angeles metropolitan area.
Also, fuggetabout the damn sodium and all that ****. Work out hard and drink a lot of water to digest it. Just make sure you ain't goin around dunking your salm-O-n in batter and hot oil anytime soon. That is, if you want to lose weight.
But Sal...he never got over what happened in the winter of 1935. His eyes never again seemed as vibrant and full of life like they had before...instead, they grew ever the more dull and listless as the days turned to months, turned to seasons, turned to years. Indeed, the murder of Ms. Jacobs had scarred Sal, perhaps farther than my impressive linguistics can portray.
So I'll just, end the story there...but the moral...the moral is that...Sal never was the "Man" anymore. Atleast, not the Sal-man that I had come to befriend and trust while we frollicked in the streets when responsibilities were so far away. Our blunt weapons which we carried with us seemed so much more full of vigor and energy, as they crashed into car windows, deli owners' craniums, and the various knees of the elderly.
Sal-- the man! Why hath our lives abandoned us!?