“And that’s when I learnt about castrating and docking sheep¹,” I said. “The poor little guys. It looks painful.”

“I know the feeling. You know between the two of us there’s a total of three testicles,” he said.

“…”

“Are you suggesting that I only have one testicle?”

“No, I’m assuming you’re a healthy male,” he said.

“What happened? Did you leave a sharpened pencil in your pocket?”

“No, I had cancer.”

“…”

“Well at least you can sympathize with being castrated, I guess.”

“True. It’s painful. Maybe next time I’ll say I left a sharpened pencil in my pocket. That’s funnier.”

_{1. To dock a sheep is to cut off its tail.}

“A teenie weenie hamburgini,” I said. “What did you get?”

“A fat bastard.”

§

While driving in the car she said, “Look at that cow in the field, I think it’s dead.”

“It’s weird how the other cows are standing around the dead cow. I wonder what they’re doing,” I said.

“Maybe they’re holding a vigil?” she said.

“Or maybe it’s a moo-logy.”

§

While at work he said, “You should have slipped in.”

“Slipped into what?” I asked, trying to stay awake.

“No you should have slipped in,” he said.

“Why would I slip in? People can see me moving around.”

“What? No, slipped in. You should have slipped in. S-L-E-P-T slipped.”

I felt like a cock in the city streets. The pedestrians mocked me. When a young hippy and I crossed paths he called me a wanker, and a wanking motion ensued as he walked across the street.

I thought that was a bit redundant, hippy!

I shrugged my shoulders. After all I was driving a car that demands confidence, a sort of affluent indifference that can only be bought.

I loved it. Now I think I will move to somewhere desolate where dead animal skulls line the highway. I need a fast car.

In an unrelated manner Xero is hiring and we’re looking for an HTML and CSS uber-guru. Here’s the pitch. Go on, apply!

“No worries,” I said.

“You sound funny. Are you American?”

“I’m from Chicago. Do you know where that is?”

“No, but I’ve been to America. My dad took me to Tennessee last year to see Elvis and my Uncle.”

“Cool. Did you have fun?”

“Yea, but we won’t go back this year because my Uncle is dead.”

“That’s… horrible.”

“…”

“So what’s your name?”

“Jeffrey. What’s yours?”

“Fergus. But people call me fungus.”

“Why do they call you fungus?”

“I’m not sure. It’s just a nickname.”

“Oh. Do you like that nickname?”

“Yea, I don’t mind it. I think it’s funny. Do you have a nickname?”

“Some people call me fingers.”

“Fingers? That’s weird.”

“I guess it’s a little weird.”

“…”

“How old are you,” he asked me.

“How old are you,” I asked him.

“Guess,” he said.

“10?”

“No.”

“5?”

“Nope.”

“8?”

“Nu-uh!” He laughed.

“6?”

“11?”

“9?”

“Yes!”

“Well. Can you tell I’m bad at guessing ages? So how old do you think I am,” I asked.

“26?”

Little bastard. But I don’t think I’ll forget him.

She placed hurdles as the first word, which used all the letters in her rack. The total score was 78 points. By the end of the game I won with 320 points (she had 271).

I enjoy playing Scrabble with Richard as well. His vocabulary is dirty, and I blame one-eyed Meg for his choice of playful words.

And this was my strangest game.

I feel like I’m in a hole, and I can only climb to freedom on a stairway made of Scrabble tiles.

Update: Mashable has a post about the popularity of Scrabble. I’m not surprised!

It was an ordinary fork, prongs to food then food to mouth, but suddenly it acquired a new, hellish aspect. I asked, “Did you just hit me with a fork?” I saw his teeth bite his tongue piercing.

My eyes moved from his face to the gentle hippies, high on organic coffee with their beady, unblinking eyes. I think they expected me to do something. Did I steal the fork from his hand and run home, like Charlie and his golden ticket? No, quite the contrary.

I said, “So. Why did you hit me?” He slouched and his eyes looked down, like a sinner in a church pew.

He looked human. I felt guilty. Damn you, nuns!

And then I apologized (don’t ask, even I don’t know why) and went to the nearest book store and bought a book, because they delight me. The book I bought is about poetry, and I think I will write a poem about the man who hit me on the back of my head with a fork. How odd!