You say lumbago, I say lambada…

Friday, 17 April 2009

You know what I’m weary of? Persons who don't know the word is wary.

Myself: You know what I’m weary of?

Me: I thought I drank you quiet…

Myself: Writers who trot out their stupid little obvious mistakes while misusing grammar and twisting the meaning of words and manipulating statistics to make points.

Me: Present company excepted?

Myself: Dude, I handle mom jokes, misogyny, and Hebrew-centric historical corrections. Pedantics and high-horsery is next door. Say, isn’t your office next door?

Me: I’ve got 1.75 liters of surprisingly decent Scotch with 18 high-hops beer backs if you’ll say I’m the greatest writer who ever lived.

Myself: I… you… the thing… you just can’t… Your poetry is pretty good.

Me: What? I couldn’t hear you.

Myself: Your… your poetry is pretty good. Your short stories too. Some of them.

Me: I’ll take that. Chivas is under the effects rack, Blue Boar is in the fridge, glasses are next to your laptop.

Myself: The better to see you with.

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