Well, it was kind of a joke.
No, I don’t think terrorism is funny.
I wasn’t even in the office at the time. None of that dialogue is mine.
I was getting coffee. For everyone.
And I spilled one of them and had to go back.
And pay for it again, because the hipster douchebag barista–baristo? It should be baristo, right?–he didn’t even care that I had coffee all down the front of my favorite T-shirt.
Because I told him it was my favorite T-shirt, and he just looked at me like I’d tried to pay for my coffee with a human turd.
Okay, none of that is true. Except the part where none of the dialogue in yesterday’s post was me.
I was busy blasting Toby Keith out of a red-white-and-blue boombox in the middle of the street and giving away free flags to the homeless.
Got me again. Look, I’m as happy–and I think I can speak for my fellows at The Fringe–as you or anybody else that after all the years and hundreds of thousands of deaths tons of ordinance and trillions of dollars that our President was able to send a surgical strike in and take out Bin Laden.
Oh, for fuck’s sake. Seriously?
This is not like Clinton reaping the benefits from trickle-down economics. Or wait. It is. In that your theory that George Bush should get the credit for the death of Bin Laden is also complete horseshit.
You did what?
He’s a multi-millionaire. Why would you send him money? He’s not even running for anything.
Dad, I’m pretty sure that Rush Limbaugh is not running for president.
Yes, this is what I’m choosing to do with my Ivy League education. In part.
Fine. There is no other part.
I do think I’m clever. Fairly clever.
All I’m saying is, if you want to give someone money, I’m always available. Those student loans aren’t going to pay themselves.
No, I haven’t been paying off my student loans.
I’m in deferment.
Because I’m in school right now.
Because I don’t want to pay my student loans.
Have you been drinking again?
No, I haven’t been drinking. Don’t try to turn this around.
No I haven’t.
Okay, yeah. But so have you.
Have too.
Have too.
Dad, put mom on the phone.
Have too.
What’s that got to do with anything? At all?
I swear to god if you say Glenn Beck one more time, I’m going to cut off my finger and send it to you in the mail.
It’s a symbol. Like a majestic eagle. Or a fat hypocritical drug addict. Or a guy who cries in public. Or a puppy wearing a sweater with the American flag on it. My finger in the mail would be a symbol. A deep-as-shit symbol. Of the divide between us.
You do not know shit about severed human fingers. Quit acting like you do.
No you didn’t.
You did not fight in Vietnam, dad.
Did not.
Did not.
Did not.
