Gorgias

I’m making faces while on the telephone, idly rearranging the fruit in my fruit bowl. This person, she will not stop talking, and I am not interested in what she’s offering me, but the primo muchas best way to fuck up this conversation and end it spectacularly has not yet hit me. The whole “I’m driving into a tunnel” angle is already in the shitter, considering the technological advances of mobile phones and transmission shit and whatnot, and but also I told her “sure” when she asked me if I was at home — which is a weird question for a telephone marketing person but necessitated by the level at which I was playing my obnoxious Devo record — and so I need to find a way to completely fuck up this conversation.

I can’t find any stupidly funny sound effects on my computer, except for the Wilhelm scream, but that wouldn’t really come across as much as, uh, say, an explosion or an elephant in musth. I do not have a fully-equipped foley set in a back room. Faking someone at the door is as old as grandmother’s grandmother, and therefore Not Sufficiently Cool. There must be a way, I tell myself, pounding myself on the head like Winnie the Pooh does, muttering to himself, “think think think!”, and I look at the fruit bowl. I start with an apple and slowly but clearly audibly work my way through a week of fruit, sometimes flushing it with a beer I loudly open. She hangs up at the third beer, disgusted, because I’m trying to spit out the nasty bits of an old mango. I’ll probably be tied to the toilet for six straight days, but she won’t be calling me then.