He: “Sea lettuce.”
She: “Where? And what are you doing eating at your desk anyway? Don’t I feed you enough?”
He: “No, love, not ‘see lettuce, bring your glasses’. ‘Sea lettuce, bring your bathing suit.’ It’s a kind of seaweed.”
“A nickel bag, dude? For us? Gnarl…”
“Dude! Shut up!!”
You jokers never learn, do you?
She: “Who are you talking to?!?”
He: “Me, myself, and I. If you’d been working on this sea lettuce report as long as I have, you’d probably be talking to yourself too.”
She: “No, there’s only one of me. If I desire conversation, I go looking for real people.”
He: “Oh, so you’d like to go fishing. Why didn’t you just say so?”
She: “Don’t make me regret reeling you in. You and your imaginary friends.”
He: “What imaginary friends?!?”
She: “The ones that pop up when you stay up all night writing reports and don’t get any sleep. What’s this all about?”
He: “You remember the Olympics in Beijing last year?”
She: “Wasn’t that when Michael Phelps was winning all those gold medals, swimming?”
“And smokin’ too, dude.”
That was later.
She: “What was later?”
He: “The cleanup. Actually, it was earlier, before the Olympics. Just hope Phelps knew how lucky he was, not having to swim outdoors.”
She: “Because why?”
He: “Because of the sea lettuce.”
She: “I sure hope he didn’t do any more than look at it. Everyone knows you’re not supposed to go into the water until at least half an hour after you eat!”
He: “Trust me, neither he nor anyone else wanted to see it, never mind eat it. All they wanted to do was get rid of it.”
She: “Ewww …”
“Party down, dude! Hit the beach and get wracked!”
“Stop yelling, dude! You’ll make yourself hoarse.”
Yeah. A dead horse.
She: “Is it my turn yet?”
He: “They don’t eat sea lettuce.”
She: “Who don’t?”
He: “The terns, of course.”
She: “Well, I won’t be eating any, that’s for sure.”
He: “Why not?”
She: “You think I want a toxic waist? Leave that report and come to bed. If those imaginary friends of yours have any consideration, they’ll finish it for you while you’re asleep.”
“Finish the report, she says. How the hell’re we supposed to do that, dude?”
“I dunno, dude. Furniture polish?”
– O Ceallaigh
Copyright Â© 2009 Felloffatruck Publications. All wrongs deplored.
All opinions are mine as a private citizen.