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Mean and spiteful
G.: Well, it's finished.
J.: You made it, then?
G.: Two mad dashes across the city from different sides, and I made it. With time to spare.
J.: So I take it that's the new do?
G.: (pats head) You like it? The woman stayed after hours to finish it. She said that I reminded her of Rita Hayworth with this style.
J.: (mumbles)
G.: What?
J.: Nothing.
G.: No, what?
J.: I said, Rita Hayworth never looked like she had a sticky clump of a cat's hairball on her head. Plus, she was actually pretty to begin with.
G.: I -- what?
J.: Well.
G.: What?
J.: Reminds me of this one time that my cat got wet, so it spent all day licking its fur and eating leftover meatballs, and when I went to bed I heard it hacking and coughing loudly, with no regard for the fact that everybody in the house is sleeping, so I got up and started feeling around in the dark and heard this wet, smacky splurp and stopped because I didn't want to step in it, and felt for the light switch, and turned it on, and there was Garrison, sitting right in the middle of the floor, all six pounds of him, in front of a hairball that had to have weighed twelve pounds, all sticky and wet and clogged with chunks of gummy meat and I think maybe even some intestinal lining, because it was that bad, and I ended up leaving it until morning, because I was tired, and when I woke, it was there, dry but still sticky, and that's sort of what your new hairstyle reminds me of.
G.:
J.: I think if you scraped some of the thick sludge off of your eyelids and maybe scraped the excessive lipstick away with a paint scraper, and got rid of the hideous plastic-triangles-and-squares earrings, maybe it wouldn't look so bad...wait, nevermind. It'd still look like a vomity ball of cat hair. With meatball gum in it, even.
G.: (sobs)
J.: You asked. What can I say.
G.: (runs away)
J.: Oh, and did I tell you that Ethan Hawke's writing sucks?
...
A-hem.
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