If You Can't Beat Them ... Well ... THEN What?
Predator Press
[LOBO]
Complainy, already a hard-core 16 year-old ‘texter,’ has probably already lost all ability to see anything further than eighteen inches from her face at this point.
-And glasses ain’t cheap.
“Would you just call those damned people already?” I demand. “You’ve been 'tiny-typing' them for hours!”
“You work on your blog for hours,” she says absently. “Why don’t you just call them?"
“Well I … ,” I begin. “Uhn, … "
“Actually talking to people is so passé,” she says, blue screenlight reflecting in her fixed brown eyes.
“People are not a mixture of minced meat and fat in the form of spreadable paste, generally made from a finely ground or chunky mixture of meats and liver and often generally enjoyed on crackers,” I remind her.
"That's pâté," she corrects.
“Nobody likes a smart ass," I retort. "And you can’t hold me responsible for that whole 'Arkansas' thing forever: I lost my wallet, and I certainly wasn’t going to catch a deer with two cans of 'Old Style.'”
-I pause for a second, rewinding the incident in my head.
“And that jerk was wearing A1 sauce,” I recall pounding my fist into the table. “He was askin’ for it!”
Complainy blinks at her phone. “Were you saying something dad?”
“Man what is wrong with you kids today?” I demand. “Back in my day, AC/DC was cool, Ozzy was evil, and Red Hot Chili Peppers was seasoning!”
“Really,” she says disinterested. “Wow.”
“And we respected our … !"
Uh-oh.
“Ah screw it,” I concede. “Just try to stay out of jail, okay?”
[LOBO]Complainy, already a hard-core 16 year-old ‘texter,’ has probably already lost all ability to see anything further than eighteen inches from her face at this point.
-And glasses ain’t cheap.
“Would you just call those damned people already?” I demand. “You’ve been 'tiny-typing' them for hours!”
“You work on your blog for hours,” she says absently. “Why don’t you just call them?"
“Well I … ,” I begin. “Uhn, … "
“Actually talking to people is so passé,” she says, blue screenlight reflecting in her fixed brown eyes.
“People are not a mixture of minced meat and fat in the form of spreadable paste, generally made from a finely ground or chunky mixture of meats and liver and often generally enjoyed on crackers,” I remind her.
"That's pâté," she corrects.
“Nobody likes a smart ass," I retort. "And you can’t hold me responsible for that whole 'Arkansas' thing forever: I lost my wallet, and I certainly wasn’t going to catch a deer with two cans of 'Old Style.'”
-I pause for a second, rewinding the incident in my head.
“And that jerk was wearing A1 sauce,” I recall pounding my fist into the table. “He was askin’ for it!”
Complainy blinks at her phone. “Were you saying something dad?”
“Man what is wrong with you kids today?” I demand. “Back in my day, AC/DC was cool, Ozzy was evil, and Red Hot Chili Peppers was seasoning!”“Really,” she says disinterested. “Wow.”
“And we respected our … !"
Uh-oh.
“Ah screw it,” I concede. “Just try to stay out of jail, okay?”
Comments
What happened?
Robin: Yeah .. 'an they get that creepy blank slackjaw zombie look, all hued in blue.
... It just ain't right.
David: I would have to attach it to one of those big Remington-Rand typerwriters ... you know, the ones that were like sixty pounds?
[*clack*]
"L"
[*clack*]
"O"
[*clack*]
"L"
LFOR: Yeah, but I always do the "hey my battery is almost dead ... I think I'm losing y-"
(dial tone)
-It seems more polite somehow.
It's quite handy. Stops annoying calls and allows me to peacefully pass out drunk on the couch.
And mmmmm.... pate.