Friday, March 19, 2010


GRAMMY:  What’s with all the damn flamingos?

ME:  What flamingos?

GRAMMY:  Alfie’s got over a hundred of them out in his front yard.  Didn’t flamingos go out with the fifties?

ME:  Oh, it’s probably some art project he’s working on.

GRAMMY:  Well, that doesn’t sound enthusiastic.  Usually, you’re fawning all over everything he does.  What’s the matter, you two love birds have a fight?

ME:  We’re not ‘love birds,’ Grammy.

GRAMMY:  Yep.  You had your first fight.

ME:  Alfie doesn’t fight, Grammy.  Or argue.  Or get mad.  He shrugs and says, “Oh well.”

GRAMMY:  Or he plants flamingos.

ME:  What are you talking about?

GRAMMY:  Well, look at the damn things.  Bound legs, beaks tied up tighter than a noose, feet frozen in the ice, and every one of their beady little eyes trained on this window.

ME:  So?

GRAMMY: So, he’s telling you to shut up, go away and die. Hell, he’s screaming it.

ME:  That’s ridiculous, Grammy.  I don’t know where you get all your crazy ideas.

GRAMMY:  Yeah, well, what you need to get is a restraining order.  Lord, I can almost hear the creepy music playing in the background.

Photo:  Stanislav Odyagailo

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