“Wait, Obama said he’d soak the rich. ‘The fuck, dude?” ~ finis ~ (h/t Pablo)’

      “Personally,” he shrugged, “I don’t see any problem with pointing out what a clever little people the Jews are. I mean, am I wrong? — or have they not done extremely well as capitalists by mastering the finer points of…well, let’s just call it supply and demand and interest…?”      I nodded. “True. Not to mention that some of your best friends are probably Jews.”       “Well, let’s not go

     “Damnit!” Kenny squealed, pulling his hand back from the hot plate. “I think I burned my fingers. Took the skin right off ’em. Quick, get me to a doctor, would ya?”      “Sure, stay calm. Where do you want to go? Urgent care? The ER? Or does it not matter?”      “Shit, man, I don’t know. Whoever gives the best treatment. I mean, I’ll be using your insurance, so money is not

     “So. You’re eating a sandwich,” Kenny said, sitting down in the chair across from mine.      I barely looked up. “Yes, Kenny. I’m eating a sandwich. That I made this morning. And brought with me to work. For my lunch.”      Kenny smiled, grabbing one of my napkins. “Cool,” he said. “I’ll take my half now, then. I’m freakin’ starving!” ~finis~

     “Hey, I have one of those, too,” he said, gesturing to his own bracelet — aware almost at once that his eagerness to claim equivalence as an afterthought had left him looking exposed and needy — the one small consolation being, he was quick to remind himself, that, no matter how he’d looked just then, at least he sounded like a needy and exposed Barry White.      So, like, it wasn’t

“You’ve completely missed my point,” he said—waving her away like he would a busker, or the officious water service at a Chinese restaurant.  “Completely and utterly missed it.”

“Ooh.  Are those chocolate macaroons…?”

     “Excuse me, sir,” an old man smelling of bacon and (perhaps) haddock, “but you wouldn’t happen to have some spare change, would you?”      He’d stumbled toward me from an alley alongside the Cricket store. His beard was the color of dishwater, and some sort of grease kept it matted down in patches like worn carpet. “No, man. Sorry. Who carries change anymore?” I tried looking him in the eyes —

     “You sure them’s ducks — and not, say, some other kind of water fowl?”      “No, those are definitely ducks.” Billy cocked his shotgun. “You can tell by the beak. And the little sailor suits.” finis

     “What are those, behind the reeds? Are those ducks?”      Billy didn’t hesitate. “Without a doubt. Ducks.” finis