String Theories, God Particles, and Mayonnaise
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Every morning they meet.
Same table.
Same conversations.
3 Old Coots recycle stale ideas, rehash moth-eaten memories, and wear down my patience.
I could have moved to another table. There was no clean alternative.
I could order To Go.
Didn't wanna.
I tried tuning them out.
Ain't gonna happen.
I sit with my back to them. I hear everything all too clearly.
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I'll describe white hair, glasses, drab clothes, blah blah, and blah.
Only voices distinctly differ.
1st guy sounds like a crushed windpipe.
CW.
The 2nd guy has a boomy voice.
BV.
The 3rd guy snuffles and his voice is nasal.
SN .
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BV: "Women don't carry purses anymore."
CW: "How would you know?"
SN: "The don't wear underwear either--just thongs."
BV: "We call em' flip-flops in Waco.
CW: "You mean boobs?"
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BV: "I'm getting up for a refill, you need anything?"
CW: "Oh, don't make any fuss about me."
SN: "I'll take a fried pie and a butt wipe."
BV: "You being funny?"
CW: "Don't chance it. Get him one."
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SN: "I'm itching to get my new outboard."
CW: "That's hemorrhoids."
SN: "It's Evinrude."
CW: "No I ain't--I'm just making an observation."
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In the course of 15 minutes of listening all this nonsense, I feel my I.Q. draining away.
As I get up to leave, CW croaks at me and points.
CW: "What do you think about all this?"
6 pairs of eyes fix on me.
Me: "We live in an age of String Theory, God Particles, and Mayonnaise (pause for effect)...
I still prefer mustard."
I leave quickly. I figure that will give them another half an hour's worth of conversation.
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