When, on a lark, you spend a recent evening watching some old-school Disney dealio and think to yourself, on another lark, "hey what if the little girl in this movie grew up and aspired to be an amateur back-alley dogfucker?" it's tempting to then think "Man what the fuck is wrong with me?" but in the end, and in the immortal words of one William Joel the answer to those two questions is in fact a third:

Why should I worry?
Why should I care?
I may not have a shred of moral fiber left in me
But I got skeet savoire faire~