“Oh, hey. How are ya? I’m, uh…oh, I’m just having a laugh. Thinkin’ about some stuff Josh said before.”
“Sure. Anyway, he was all: ‘Dad?’ And I–well, you know: he’s a good kid and all–but I was just, ‘Oh, no, no, no.’ but he seemed fine with it.”
John Mayer couldn’t be your son.
“No. Nah. No: he has one of those butt-chins. And those are genetic: parents gotta have one. And I don’t have a butt-chin, I have a beard.”
Bobby, you most certainly do have a butt-chin.
“Well, I don’t wanna get in a thing, here, but I think I know my own face.”
“Okay, sure: there’s that. Nothing else in common except being tall, handsome, and musically gifted with enormous hands and I dated his mother in the late-70’s.”
“When is his birthday?”
“We were playing real well then.”
“I need to make a few phone calls.”
Catch you later.