Some old Racquel Welch film crackles and pops on the old tube television. The evening sunlight seeps in through slatted shades and ignites the dust into a million shimmering particles. The old green and orange plaid rocking chair is occupied by a heavy set and balding man chewing on the same tobacco he's had since morning. His chin is stained a greasy brown. His children, a boy and a girl, pick at the carpet at his feet. He speaks to a daughter, a small boned pale blonde child with eyes too big for her face. "Don't look at the tube, girl. There's skins in this movie." He says nothing to the son and turns his head towards the screen as Racquel takes off her top, a perverted sloppy grin creeping up his cheeks. His wife walks in the room. Big peroxide hair frizzes around her head and blush too pink to be found in nature is smudged into her mottled, blotchy skin. She's about 75 pounds overweight and about 10 of it is in her makeup. "Turn that SKANK off the Tee Vee, supper is ready." She kicks a few T.V. trays over towards the kids and flicks the channel nobs to some talk show filled with bad hair and even more depressing stories. She brings out plates containing small, charred, hockey puck burgers. Bunless, and each wearing their own congealed slice of some knock off Kraft American Single. "Eat up," she says, as Sally Jesse Raphael begs the room stay tuned after the commercial break.