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Seldovia
D.: I think it always comes back to the fact that I don't feel productive here.
F.: Pfft. Pro-duc-tive. Like you're a steam press or something. Pfffffffft.
D.: Well, I wouldn't expect you to understand.
F.: So you're gonna move.
D.: That's exactly what I'm going to do. Move. Disappear.
F.: But you're telling me.
D.: Well...yeah.
F.: It's not really disappearing if you tell someone.
D.:
F.: I mean. Really.
D.: So anyway. I found this picture on this web site yesterday. It's a place called Sell... Seld... Seldovia. That's it.
F.: Show me?
D.: See?
F.: Huh. It's just a house.
D.: Well, yeah. On a great big lake in Alaska. Surrounded by trees and fog. I mean, this is it.
F.: Yeah, if you want to smell fish all day.
D.: What?
F.: People who live in places like that just fish all day, and gut them right on the cobblestone streets.
D.: They do not.
F.: Do, too. And spout off creative obscenities that are somehow worse than all the ones you already know.
D.: Nuh-uh.
F.: Like 'You slimy codpiece of a whore' or 'You're no better than the pickled salmon juices trapped in the anal glands of a halibut'.
D.: Ewww.
F.: See? So you don't want to move to Seldovia.
D.: But if I made friends with everybody, they wouldn't insult me.
F.: Well...
D.: What?
F.: Look, we're friends. And I insult you.
D.: Well, yeah, I guess.
F.: It's because you look like a good target. You look like someone who can be picked on.
D.: I do not.
F.: You do. All I want to do is call you a (censored).
D.: Well, who's to say I don't grow a big mountain-man beard in Seldovia, huh?
F.: Well, then. I'd call you a big bearded (censored).
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