HEY BIRD, HEY!

Conversational scraps: "Come the revolution, there will be an ooping and an aacking and a gnashing of beaks!" "But what if you have no beak?" "Beaks will be mandatory!" The fluffy condor looks baffled, but the turkey vulture heads off in a different direction, asking "say, where is that communist frog?"

Wisely, I decide to remain silent.


Most of the time I do not provide the voices of the various roomies. My apartment mate, on the other hand, makes sure that they express themselves. Some of them do so only when protesting something egregious that one of the more rambunctious critters had said.

I have no idea why the turkey vulture is asking about the communist frog.
They can't be plotting something. The oligarch hates him.
And thinks that Siberia is too good.

Salt mines, boy, salt mines!

Out of the blue, she wonders aloud whether there are people who can waggle and flap their armpits to make musical sounds. I suggest that this would be an splendid project for scientific investigation, probably flabby old people, and perhaps she should head over to the nearest retirement facility with a questionaire and equipment. She responds that she has no interest at all in spending any time with those people. And then also disagrees with my opinion that they would make a great replacement for the tuba section in a marching band.


"Ooomp, oump, ooomp, oump, ooomp ... "


There is silence from the other side of the computer table.
But I can hear her typing away furiously.

Someone is going to get an eyeful.



UPDATE AS OF 10:05 AM

Now she's reading about white people's families and their breeding. Apparently in some parts of the country they're at the Ptolomeic range, or three generations have the same father. She mutters about the Habsburgs and Cleopatra. Good gracious, some of those folks should only marry space-aliens to keep their kids from having recessive genes! Bottom dwellers on heroin and crack cocaine!

"Say, do you have any cousins in West Virginia?

Sometimes the whole country from Oakland to the East River seems like a giant trailer park where everyone eats grits, cheezboogars, and grape slushies, and has moonshine-swilling kerosene-reek kinfolk they don't talk to anymore in every holler.

It's likely that I have distant relatives out there.
I'm not planning to find out.



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