Immediately before this picture was taken, the photographer told Billy what a Brony was. The look you see on Billy’s face is him processing the fact that there are grown men who watch–repeatedly and closely–the children’s cartoon My Little Pony.
This got Billy so angry that he couldn’t even punch dicks.
He was already wearing a jacket, so thought briefly about going to the mall to wear the jacket, but then the photographer called him ‘Mickey’ by mistake and a cool tingle ran down his right arm, “Uncle Billy’s dickpunching arm” he used to call it, and he had such pride, such vanity: the oils and essences and unguents he would rub (or, mostly, have rubbed) into the skin from shoulder to wrist. Billy’s good arm glowed like a honey-glazed ham on fire.
Billy was back; the photographer was down. Things were right and good and the red seeped from his vision and then Billy noticed a pinball machine and it turned into an okay afternoon.