Loudly. In detail.
Needless to say, both myself and Mr. Bunions were a bit disgruntled; for different reasons, of course. I was annoyed because my studious note-taking was interrupted. Mr. Bunions was 'annoyed' because in his day, there were no catty harlots lounging in the street or on the boob-tube. You had to hunt them down in the forest, and even then, you were lucky to see a little ankle. But most of the time, Mr. Bunions had to settle for watching the Grizzly Bears rut. But don't ask me about that.
As an unworldly and rather shy teenager, I was somewhat out of my depth. But Mr. Bunions wasn't. So in this case, I was perfectly content to cede control to Mr. Bunions. And Mr. Bunions was perfectly content to assume it.
Mr. Bunions: Now, youngster, if you don't shut those salami slices you call lips, I'll be forced to play hackey-sack with your scrotum.
Jock #1: Whut?
Mr. Bunions: Fair warning. *taps his steel-toed boots*
Jock #2: What are you talking about?
Mr. Bunions: In my day, there were no 'Porno-Tubes' or 'Astro-Slides'! I would have been damn grateful if I had that! I would've loved a tube of porn! I didn't even have a tube of cheese! You know what I had?! National Geographic! The Sears and Roebuck Catalogue! Do you know what those women wore? Do you? They wore gender-neutral onesies! And the Grizzly Bears! Goddamn those bears!
Jock #1: You're sick!
Mr. Bunions: Touché, motherfucker! *BURRRP*
A round of applause for Mr. Bunions, please.
- mr. bunions demands applesauce and porno tube.
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