Give it to me.
Goddammit, Phil: gimme the phone.
“Fuck off. What phone? Fuck off.”
I can see it in the giant pocket of your comfy sweatpants.
“That’s not a phone.”
“I’m learning magic. Ned Lagin is coming back and we’re gonna do a Penn and Teller routine in between sets.”
None of that is true. Give me the phone.
“Fuck off. I need it.”
Dammit, all of you need to stop routing your WiFi through the Time Sheath.
“I have to be in touch with the restaurant.”
That’s 20 years away from this picture.
“I don’t exist in 1989. I exist within a picture taken of 1989.”
This all makes my head hurt.
“The busboys must be managed. Last time I left them alone, they tried to form a union. The time before that, they tried to form Voltron.”
That didn’t happen.
Not a word.
“They should be happy for their employment. I house them. I feed them. I clothe them. What more do they want?”
“Never! That’s not how this works.”
How does it work?
“Busboys are social creatures; they follow a hierarchy. You engage the alpha in combat. You best him. Then, the whole pack belongs to you.”
I think you’re talking about otters.
“Busboys and river otters are closely related species. You can’t have my phone.”
APPLE WATCH NOISE
At least tell Bobby to take the Apple Watch off?
“No. Fuck off.”