Sep 18 2009


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Uncle Bob shook his head. “I’m worried about you, my boy. Worried! All you ever do is sit around this bourgeois apartment you’ve set up for yourself, clacking away at the keyboard, taking abuse from that harridan. You need, in short, to get a life.”

Greg shook his head. “I have a life, thank you, and one that suits me nicely. I’m a natural-born keyboard clacker.”

“Balls!” said Uncle Bob. “You’re too young spend your life sitting on your butt. Now, as your Godfather and brother to the lovely lady who gave you life, I feel responsible for you, and it’s my duty to see that you get out there and experience the grand tapestry of life.”

“You? Responsible?”

“Don’t sound so dubious, you little brat! I’ve had a long and rich life, and I know whereof I speak.”

Greg pursed his lips and raised his eyebrows. “You spent the ’70s riding in the back of a van with a band called ‘Fab Rick and the Softeners’.”

“Exactly! We had adventures, my boy. Adventures!”

“Like being held for ten days in a county jail on possession charges?” Greg said. “Sounds thrilling.”

“Who told you about that?”

“That would be the lovely lady who gave me life you mentioned earlier,” Greg said. “Mother was very fond of you, Uncle Bob, but she had no illusions about you, either.”

“Well, it wasn’t my marijuana anyway,” said Bob. “I was an innocent bystander, and that deputy had it in for us from the start.”

“Don’t they all?” said Greg, and turned back to his keyboard.

-The Gneech

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