Phillo, Sophist

Hey, Phil. Reading to the kids?

“Gosh, you’re observant.”

Don’t say anything, but I think that little boy in the middle has one of those aging diseases.

“That’s Guberman, jackass. He’s my keyboardist.”

Is this how you pay your band? With stories?

“I’m this close to 86’ing you from TXR.”

But I was looking forward to Psychic Night with Evidential Medium Cindy Kaza. I have some important questions for my father.

“Like what?”

Where he left the remote, for starters. It’s been ten years and we still can’t find it.

“Go away.”

“Have you considered ze locus of power within zis discourse? Also, would you consider peeing on me?”

“Who is that?”

“C’est moi.”

“Oh, go away, Mike. No one understands a goddamned word you say.”

“Oui. Zis is because you are all–‘ow you say?–doofuses. Zis is correct? Doofus?”

“Escargot away.”

“Non! We shall discuss ‘ow schizophrenia is a conspiracy of ze ‘eterosexuals. And zen we shall fist each other.”

“Dammit, man, there are children here!”

“I shall fist ze bearded one.”

…

“HEY!”

Me?

“Oh, yeah. You. Don’t come around here any more and don’t bring any more perverted philosophers.”

But Lacan wanted to see Moonalice.

“OUT!”