New Digs

“Like, wow, dude!”

“Yeah, dude, I do like wow. Sometimes.”

“Who’d ‘a thunk it? Our very own place!”

“Yeah, dude. But how we gonna tell time?

“Like, with your cell phone?

“But we don’t got the da Silvas upstairs no more. How we gonna set those cell phones without their nightly fight to tell us when it’s 10 PM?”

“I’ll take that problem, dude. We don’t got the da Silvas upstairs no more. We ain’t got nobody upstairs no more. Not even OC or Quilly. We got space! Just listen to the echoes!”

That ain’t new, dude. Been listenin’ to them the whole time.”

“You have?

“Ringin’ off your empty head, dude.”

“Right, dude. For that crack, I dibs you clean the bathroom.”

“And let you decorate this place all by yourself? I don’t think so, dude!”

“Well, you don’t think I’m gonna sit around and let OC do it, do you?”

“Dude, paintings of weed leaves on black velvet are not goin’ up on these walls, dig? Have you forgotten command-X?

Control-x, dude! And, no. Weed leaves deserve oil on canvas.”

“Whatever, dude. Just get with it, huh? That picture of sprinklers on steroids, or whatever the hell it is, just ain’t gonna cut it. We gonna start hostin’ people in here Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, showin’ ’em around, tellin’ ’em our history, pointin’ ’em to the archives (you did remember not to trash the archives?), the joint’s gotta be ready.”

“The joint, dude?”

“Dream on, dude.”

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