Some little douchebag dressed like a sack of carrot vomit jams a stupid whistle into his stupid little face as his vacuous intellect attempts to formulate a thought more complex than a subvocalized grunt. His twerp of a friend, whose greasy twig of an arm clings like a chundered noodle to the shoulders of Douche No. 1, casts his beady little eyes toward the crush of moronic vegetables wafting their moronic odor about in the distance and so polluting the atmosphere through the grave offence of their very existence.
Then this wretched skinbag of an old woman lopes by with an outsized goitre dangling from the top of her wretched old head, all wrapped up in a horridly tasteless scarf. Meanwhile, some creepy lout behind them glares lecherously the other way.