“I’d like you to meet my secret, Mexican family.”
Oh, for fuck’s sake. None of these people are secret or Mexican. These people are whiter than an envelope factory.
“You’re right. This is Team Mayer.”
You should make some trades. I think this team needs a rebuilding year.
“Nah. We’re a finely-tuned machine. All the way on the right there is Stubby Maybelline. He’s my personal croupier.”
Why do you have a personal croupier?
“Never know when the bones are gonna call.”
Fine.
“Next to him is the Human Post-It.”
I don’t get it.
“Those aren’t tattoos; they’re, like, notes I wrote to myself. ‘Pick up milk, bang Demi Lovato’ that sort of thing. Sometimes, I just doodle on him while I’m on the phone.”
Doesn’t seem cost-efficient.
“And next to him, of course, is Pete Ulrich.”
Who’s that?
“Skeet’s younger, far less talented brother.”
Sure.
“Jumpsuit Jean, the Jumpsuit Queen.”
Obviously. And her purpose is?
“Jumpsuits.”
Right. What about the beardo?
“That’s Not Your Father’s Gorton’s Fisherman.”
I’ll say.
“No, that’s his name. Not Your Father’s Gorton’s Fisherman. Gorton’s did a rebrand of their corporate logo and they’re paying me a million bucks to cross-promote it.”
Nice work if you can get it.
“Plus a truckful of fishsticks. You know the saying, ‘They’ll back the Brinks truck up to your door?’ Well, they did, but the truck was full of breaded cod or whatever the fuck it is.”
I’m going to go back to ignoring you until the next time you’re a Grateful Dead again.
“Cool. See you Friday in Boston.”
Dammit.
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