Cotton letters deliver hope
Mom's thunderous glare didn't phase (nameless) for it takes intellect to fear. (nameless) then displayed her traditional hick-style defense mechanism: outrageously hostile agression.
"(boss) said that if I wer' here bai' nine-turdy, I cood giddit ri' afta der store opened."
Her dialect strengthened as she excalimed herself out the door, Wii in her filthy and undeserving hand/bag. Keep in mind that all this happened because I was disallowed SPECIAL EMPLOYEE ADVANTAGES.
Aaron and Mom stood together, petrified in a combination of rage, shock and vengeance. Their mouths gaped as Mary looked at her pink cross-trainers, utterly ashamed and frantically speechless from the events that unfolded.
Aaron broke the silence, "Now what happens?"
Mom took her LG out of her pocket and began dialing.
"What are you doing?" Aaron asked, still bewildered by the thought of being Eiffel Towered by the friendly staff of Pamida.
"Calling my son."
Aaron said a prayer without opening his mouth, Please let the son of the very nice lady be as kind as his mother/not a douchebag. A pony would be pretty sweet, too.
***back in the brettcave (it's portable)***
9:57:34
Beebop was exceptionally difficult that morning. Usually the duo of Don and Leo outmaneuver the punky swine with kitanas and detailed strategies like having one of us walk in front so he uses his little mace hat and the other guy kills the fucker from behind.
We're geniuses, really.
I was distracted. How could I focus on an 8-bit adventure of heroes in a halfshell when something I've anticipated for a bajillion days was finally in my posession, vicariously at line.
Brett's pulse = sin678(a) as a approaches 10:00 pm CDT.
Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit.
Donatello better run on autopilot.
My phone recieved the signal that I and everyone around may or may not have been waiting for.
_______________
Call From:
Mom
_______________
Mom gave me the 4-1-1 on the awful situation, her voice passionately chilly and muffled by the connection. Imagine your beloved fiance' being kidnapped by an aged trucker with a toothless grin and a half-empty bottle of gin, all the while sporting a neon shirt with a dolphin from Seaworld 1992.
I was helplessly cross-state.
Mom concluded her rant/story with a question:
"What should I do with the Wii?"
It was only fair that Aaron, the customer and unaffiliated leader of the line, recieved the console he sought for.
Windy chips,
Brett w/ envy
"(boss) said that if I wer' here bai' nine-turdy, I cood giddit ri' afta der store opened."
Her dialect strengthened as she excalimed herself out the door, Wii in her filthy and undeserving hand/bag. Keep in mind that all this happened because I was disallowed SPECIAL EMPLOYEE ADVANTAGES.
Aaron and Mom stood together, petrified in a combination of rage, shock and vengeance. Their mouths gaped as Mary looked at her pink cross-trainers, utterly ashamed and frantically speechless from the events that unfolded.
Aaron broke the silence, "Now what happens?"
Mom took her LG out of her pocket and began dialing.
"What are you doing?" Aaron asked, still bewildered by the thought of being Eiffel Towered by the friendly staff of Pamida.
"Calling my son."
Aaron said a prayer without opening his mouth, Please let the son of the very nice lady be as kind as his mother/not a douchebag. A pony would be pretty sweet, too.
***back in the brettcave (it's portable)***
9:57:34
Beebop was exceptionally difficult that morning. Usually the duo of Don and Leo outmaneuver the punky swine with kitanas and detailed strategies like having one of us walk in front so he uses his little mace hat and the other guy kills the fucker from behind.
We're geniuses, really.
I was distracted. How could I focus on an 8-bit adventure of heroes in a halfshell when something I've anticipated for a bajillion days was finally in my posession, vicariously at line.
Brett's pulse = sin678(a) as a approaches 10:00 pm CDT.
Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit.
Donatello better run on autopilot.
My phone recieved the signal that I and everyone around may or may not have been waiting for.
_______________
Call From:
Mom
_______________
Mom gave me the 4-1-1 on the awful situation, her voice passionately chilly and muffled by the connection. Imagine your beloved fiance' being kidnapped by an aged trucker with a toothless grin and a half-empty bottle of gin, all the while sporting a neon shirt with a dolphin from Seaworld 1992.
I was helplessly cross-state.
Mom concluded her rant/story with a question:
"What should I do with the Wii?"
It was only fair that Aaron, the customer and unaffiliated leader of the line, recieved the console he sought for.
Windy chips,
Brett w/ envy
posted by Warx at 6:14 PM
1 Comments:
BERTT ur a master werdsmythe.. Forz hsilde.
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