You look like that Afghani girl on the cover of National Geographic.
“You look like a mook.”
Ow.
“I just wanted to say mook.”
It’s a fun word.
“But you do.”
Sure. Tell me of love! I demand it!
“You’re in no position to demand.”
Seated?
“Sure.”
Still.
“Love is the bubble in champagne.”
How so?
“An explainable chemical reaction, but quite lovely.”
Are you carrying all of your possessions?
“No, I’m wearing some of them.”
Back to love.
“Which one? Agape, storge? Philia, eros?”
The Greek one.
“Choose your love. A poorly-defined question leads to Satan.”
Which Satan?
“Satan, Wisconsin. Their Oktoberfest is going on now.”
Sure. How many drugs are in your bag?
“Enough, plus some.”
Did you make your own gloves?
“I made my own gloves.”
You look like the bed with all the coats thrown on it at a party, with blue eyes.
“You’re not a mook: you’re a dick. Swaggie Maggie is right: this bit is sexist and I refuse to participate in it. Oh, good: my Uber’s here. Bye, loser.”
“I FREAKED OUT AND WENT INTO MY SAFE SPACE AGAIN!”
You’re the Uber driver?
“FIVE STAR REVIEW GETS A TUGGER!”
Nope. Done.
It was “Blue-eyed Lady of the Playa”, then Bob Dylan did a rewrite.
Is that Garcia’s briefcase of infinite felonies on the passenger seat?