Sunday, September 26, 2010

Discombobulated ...

Time: 2:54 a.m. Sunday morning

(While sitting on the couch watching old episodes of "Miami Ink," and trying to write about Kat Von D in a way that doesn't sound like I think she communicates with me whenever I put on this-here tinfoil helmet. Also thinking of popping Vanilla Sugar Cookies into the oven.

Phone vibrates, and the screen reveals a dopey smiling photo of my former landlord. It is impossible that he is sober -- as it is after 11 p.m. and the world is still seemingly plugged in -- so in answering I'm sacrificing at least the top layer of my brain matter. But there is a chance he needs a ride home, so ...)

Me: Hello?
Former landlord: Quick! How do you spell 'discombobulated'?
Me: What?
Former landlord: LOOK IT UP AND CALL ME BACK!
Me: What? Why?
Former landlord (who does not have such luxuries as internet, and in fact doesn't have internet so hard that he probably expects me to look this up in a dictionary book): I'm trying to impress a girl. She has a Masters degree. Call me back.
Me: How do you not know how to spell --
Me: I can just tell you. It's D-I-S-C-O-M ...
Former landlord: Wait. D-I-S ...
Me: C-O-M-B-O-B-U-L
Former landlord: Wait! My pen isn't working! ... B-O-B ...
Me: U-L-A-T-E-D.
Former landlord: Oh, that's how I would have spelled it.
Me: It's not very impressive to a girl when you call another girl while you're making her a burger at 3 a.m.
Former landlord: Oh, she's not here. I'm going to see her tomorrow. She's smart, Pista. She's real smart.


Futbol said...

ask him if he's shown her his Superior Meat yet.

Kate Bee said...

I wish you had a whole category link to all of your Taquita's Dad posts. They are, for lack of a better term, priceless.