What people didn't know about me in 1978 was that I was gay. Very, very gay. How gay? Let's look at a JOHNSON FOLLIES to see the damning, and delicious, evidence:
Let's look closer:
Mmmm. Rolled up jeans. Sweet shiny shins. Hint of glitter on an exposed knee. Pulled-up socks. Need I say more? GAY.
Continuing the theme, Greg staggers and twists about into a melting hair-drooping skull of shrivelly waste, ala the portrait of Dorian Gray. GRAY.
EGAD, indeed. But where is the ascot, milord?
At last we have Greg lording his haute couture over his fallen brother, as if daring him to gaze upon the majesty and mystery of those denim folds (now puffed out to an extravagant size, like a kookaburra trying to attract a mate) and force him to admit his fashion inferiority.
Meanwhile, Snoopy has ZOOMed out of his cage to chase tail all over the neighborhood. Heh, heh. Funny doggie. He hopes they serve toilet water in hell.