"Hiya, and how are you this fine Tuesday evening?"
"Hi Betty. Well I'm okay, but my friend Mary is sick, and her whole family is being too loud."
"Of course they are."
"And I'm trying to cheer her up and give her moral support."
"Tell her I'll lend her my shotgun and duct tape."
"Her husband and three children are rioting."
"Of course, because she's the mom and it should not faze her."
"There ought to be a law."
"I know how horrible those times are. You need just a little peace and quiet, and yet you get absolutely none."
"Well I mean at least her husband should be more, what is it, sensitive or something? Or have more brains?"
"Brains. Hah. Thinking and men . . . oxymoron."
"Well, now, I used to take Daughter 1 and Daughter 2 out every weekend with me, to the grocery store, the hardware store, you name it, and left mommy at home to rest."
"George kicks me out once in a while, so I can be alone but there are the times when everyone is home and going nuts and I need help. Then, I get nothing."
"It's just the right thing to do."
"Of course. You are a good father, but that doesn't mean you aren't a brainless man."
"Plus I loved having my little girls with me everywhere."
"Speaking of brainless men . . . my son pooed in the potty tonight. We called everyone we know so he could tell them."
"I know, it was on CNN. They had video."
"And then he conned me out of a buck. Did CNN have a recording of my pooh song?"
"Wolf Blitzer kind of stumbled his lines, but it was a good report. And no, I don't think I heard the poo song."
"Sometimes, I worry about you. And those unfortunate to be around you all the time."
"You, and the rest of North America. And Australia too. So how does the song go?"
"Oh, I just made this up today: 1, 2 . . . time to go poo; 3, 4 . . . poo some more; 5, 6 . . . I can't think of anything about poo that rhymes with six; 7, 8 . . . I like to skate; 9, 10 . . . don't make me sing again!"
"You were a cheerleader weren't you? Or on the pep squad?"
"Listen, Shakespeare, this is me on only three hours of sleep and a headache the size of Texas. I ate cheerleaders for breakfast."
"You were one those leggy, perky blonds that all the other girls wanted to suffocate, weren't you?"
"I'll have you know, Mr. Humorist, that I was in chorus and the school paper. I wasn't hot then: braces, bad skin, horrible hair, you name it, if it was bad, I had it."
"Well what led to your eventual uber-hotness? Whisky? Oral sex? Whisky and oral sex?"
"Drugs, sex and rock 'n' roll. College, baby."
"Ah, the three essential food groups."
"Ok, I need to get rid of my headache. I'll chitty-chat with you later. Hasta la pasta."
"Bye for now, Betty. Talk to you soon."
May 24, 2009.
Copyright © 2009, Ricky A. Pursley. All rights reserved.