The Pianist

When Mrs. Froman said she wanted to see The Pianist, I hauled ass to the bathroom, splashed on a little smell-good, lathered my nether-regions in avacado/cucumber extract, and donned my tear-away thong. Since she passed 65, the Missus only asks to see The Pianist once every other birthday or so. I wasn’t going to miss an opportunity to let the troglodytes up on the surface for a few hours.

Then she drove us to the theater.

The lows of my disappointment were whale-crap deep. I bought some Hot Tamale candy and pouted through the coming attractions, sitting in my own fruit/veggie crotchal stink. I put Agatha’s hand on my lil’ organist several times, but she wasn’t having any of it. She only wanted to watch the movie. She never was much good at multitasking anyway. I somehow made it through the upcoming previews (which were fuckin’ great, btw) before I fell asleep.

I got my revenge though.

I told her that there was a fantastic movie coming out about a really smart speech pathologist midget. Hey you old bat, how would you like a Little Cunning Linguist?

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