DOB turns 90 today.
TCG: (Heading off after his postprandial nap - the second of three per day) I have to pick up the ice cream cake and deliver it to the place we eat every Monday since infinity minus forever. (OK, I paraphrased the last part.)
UCC: (Having packaged the florist flowers delivered earlier, together with the card I got, and a present I bought and wrapped into a shopping bag, to enable the invalid to carry it with him to the restaurant.) OK. There's a vase of H20 next to a wrapped candle in a glass. Be careful.
(TCG drives off. Meanwhile, back at the Fortress of Attitude, a mailman knocks on door to deliver birthday card from DOB's daughter and dranddaughter from suburban Branson and collect postage due. How ironic.)
TCG: (Returning home breathlessly, amid much huffing, puffing, and anxiety to reach the toilet, to sit and to begin speaking. The man is nothing unless it's a dramatic overacting diva who desperately needs attention). Had a minor disaster...
UCC: Oh my goodness, what happened?
WISIMH: Let's see. Selectively incontinent? Broken vase in restaurant? Other pathetic fuckup?
TCG: (Never one for wasting his words.) Vase spilled, glass candle broke, spill ruined card.
TCG: (More breathing et. al.) Do you want to run down to CVS to get her something else?
UCC: (Catching an astonished breath) No.
WISIMH: Are you shitting me, you brain-dead clueless douchebag? What I'd like to giver her for her 90th fucking birthday is my foot up her fat butt so far her demented head'd explode.
TCG: Maybe I'll go down later.
WISIMN: Your filial devotion is exceeded only by your immense absence of initiative, your black hole sucking lack of energy; your tiniest spark of intellectual effort, or your withered fucking imagination.