Hey, Billy. Reading?
“Nah. Looking at pictures. Never really learned how to read.”
“Seemed like a hassle.”
This is a new development.
“First grade, right? Teacher’s giving us that whole ‘A,B, C’ bullshit. What’s that called?”
“Alpha dog don’t need no alphabet.”
That doesn’t make sense.
“So the teacher-lady goes ‘Open your book to page ten’ or whatever, right? So, I say, ‘Is that where the skank is?’ And she goes, like, ‘There’s no skank, William.'”
“I know! So I go, ‘Well, are there at least pictures of titties?’ And would you believe that witch sent me to the principal?”
What’d you do?
“Punched the principal in his dick; punched the vice-principal in his vice-dick.”
You are a consistent hobgoblin.
“After that, nature was my teacher.”
How’d that work out?
“Not great. Nature’s dumb as shit. Real good at being a tree or a mountain or whatever, but try asking nature who won the Peloponnesian War.”
You can read.
“Course I can read. I wrote a damn book, man.”
Benjy wrote your book, Billy.
“He acted in an advisory position.”
“Mostly just told me where the commas go. Tricky little buggers.”
Billy, you told stories into a tape recorder, and then Benjy sat down and turned it into something resembling a book. Phil wrote his book. You participated in the creation of yours.
“Maybe, but mine’s better than Phil’s. How many Dan Healy-involved orgies does Phil’s book have?”
“See!? Mine’s better. Also: in Phil’s book, how many times is he mean to Phil?”
“There you go. Billy wins.”
You always do.