Fictionlet
“Hey,” said Brigid. “I know this guy. Who is it?”
“Hmm?” said Greg.
“This guy on the investment commercial. I know I know him, but I can’t place him.”
Greg looked over at the muted television. “Oh! That’s Davy Jones.”
“Davy Jones?” said Brigid in complete non-comprehension.
“Yup,” said Greg. “That’s him.”
“Davy Jones — as in Davy Jones? Now-I’m-a-Believer-Cheer-Up-Sleepy-Jean Davy Jones?”
“The Monkee himself,” Greg said.
“Can’t be!” said Brigid. “No way, that can’t be Davy Jones! Christ, he looks like John Forsythe. And he’s hawking investments!”
“Look at the eyes. That’s him.”
“He played with Jimi Hendrix, for crying out loud! I used to have a poster of him up on my wall. How the heck did he become such a square?”
“Maybe Jimi was slumming,” said Greg. “Besides, everybody’s a square in their sixties.”
“Sean Connery wasn’t.”
“Sean Connery is a demigod. I’m talking about mortals.”
“You mean Davy Jones isn’t a demigod?” Brigid asked.
“Can you imagine a demigod hawking investments and looking like John Forsythe?”
“No, I suppose I can’t,” said Brigid. “Man, how disappointing. I want my age 15 back.”
-The Gneech
<-- previous B&G next B&G -->
PS: Eek, eek.
