Fictionlet
Greg sidled forward to some internal beat and pointed a finger at Brigid. “Some people try to pick up girls, they call them ‘asshole,'” he said in a peculiar sing-songy chant. “This did not happen to … Pablo Picasso! Why he could walk down the street, girls could not resist his stare.” He turned and struck a rock-star pose, and said, “Pablo Picasso was never called an asshole!”
Brigid smirked. “Not like you,” she said.
Greg bopped back and forth again. “Well the girls would turn the color of an a-va-ca-do, when he’d drive down the street in his El-do-ra-do. Why, he was only five-foot-three! Girls could not resist his stare!” He turned and struck another pose. “Pablo Picasso was never called an asshole!”
“Heh. Not in New York,” Brigid said.
“Some people,” said Greg, “try to pick up girls, they call them ‘asshole.’ This did-not-happen to Pablo Picasso! Why he could walk down the street, girls could not resist his stare.”
Brigid nodded. “Subsequently, Pablo Picasso was never called an asshole.”
“Not around here,” agreed Greg.
“Not like you,” said Brigid.
“Yeah, girls would turn the color of an avacado, when he’d drive down the street in his El Dorado. Why, he was only five-foot-three, but girls could not resist his stare. Pablo Picasso was never called an asshole!”
“Not like you,” said Brigid.
“Yeah,” said Greg, nodding thoughtfully. “He was really something.”
-The Gneech
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