(xx) Christmas Suggestions for the Boss

Say, Doc, if I was her husband, easy chair, reading the newspaper, Russell lounges on the Davenport with a storybook, and the master of the menage at the library table counterplates in the sort of document spread out before him with a facial expression definitely hostile.

And say it observes... Hey, what you making faces at? Mm-hmm. Do I contort my features into unlovely good maces? I'll say. Is it your work, your mad-ass? Yeah. Office workers? Well, not strictly speaking, no.

Fred Timbout, I'm working this evening. Easy. Putting in overtime at the foundry. On your door, the way the golden hairs grow on Fred Timbout and firm brown wrists. You are mad. Never mentioned that the supper table you were going to be busy tonight.

Something I've been putting off. What is it? Oh, darn half with Christmas, Fred. Junk. Oh, Mr. Rubbish. Ha ha. You still trying to decide what to buy him? Yeah, so. I'm belly aching and complaining about that job weeks ago.

Me. What's all the papers you got there? Trash. Nothing but trash. Everybody down to plant handed me a slip with suggestions on it. Deeze, it is suggested. No good. Sickening, sad for Lauren, dismal, wretched, melancholy.

What you doing, say, Santa? Not much. I'm trying to read his book, but I can't get interested. I miss me, you and Mom's conversation with Abner, and also get ready to scratch my head, which I'm convinced is going to start it in any minute. And also, one in the foster cackle, call me on the top of...

You are a boss, wordy and girl. Yes, lots of others have told me that same thing. Well, climb up off in that damn port and come assist, Papa. I stepped my neck out a mile further and was already stuck out.