The Banter Report
In the car, listening to Michael Jackson: Number Ones.
Michael Jackson: I’m bad! I’m bad! Really, really bad!
My girlfriend: You know, none of us believed it at the time, but he really was bad.
Me: He was a child molester.
My girlfriend: That’s really, really bad. This song was like his confessional.
Michael Jackson: And the whole world has to answer right now, just to tell you once again — who’s bad?
My girlfriend: You are, Michael.
I make up new lyrics to the next track on the Michael Jackson compilation on the spot: The way you make me feel / You really turn me on / You knock me off of my feet / You’re only seven years old.
* * *
At home, in front of the TV news.
Me: Wait — Silvio Berlusconi is having an affair with an 18-year-old? How old is he?
My girlfriend: Gross. He is gross years old.
My respect for septuagenarian Italian president Silvio Berlusconi silently grows.
* * *
At home, again.
Me: My friend asked how you got to be so witty. I said the same way people on TV do: I hired you a team of writers.
My girlfriend: See? I can be your replacement for Toula.
Me: Ugh. Don’t be gross.
My girlfriend: I mean, on the blog. You won’t have any more Toula stories. But you’ll have plenty of Candace stories. [sips wine]
Me: Except your brain damage will be voluntary.
More wine-drinking takes place, eventually resulting in this post.
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