“One, two, three, four–”
DON’T YOU DO IT, MOTHERFUCKER!
“–I declare a Rando War.”
Goddammit. Rando War is like the herpes of this site. So it makes sense you’re responsible.
“I don’t have herpes.”
Lie to randos, Josh, not me. You have at least one of every herpe. You collect watches, clothes, and herpes. You’re like that seed bank in Norway, but for herpes.
“I can’t hear you. I’m winning Rando War.”
“Rando War back on? We’re in.”
“Look at these randos! We got four. Beat that, Meyers!”
“Yeah, beat–”
“SPEAK WHEN SPOKEN TO, NEW BRENT!”
“Not in front of the randos, Mick.”
“You wanna keep flapping your gums, boy? You’re getting clogged!”
PERCUSSIONIST CHASING KEYBOARDIST WITH A PAIR OF ATTACK CLOGS NOISE
…
“Are, uh, we doing a Rando War?”
Bobby, that’s your family.
“Ah.”
Doesn’t count.
“Well, you know, they’re randos to somebody. Like Doctor J.”
What about Doctor J?
“He’d consider both women to be randos. He’d, uh, probably be nice to ’em ’cause they’re pretty, but they’d still be of the genus rand. So, uh, pretend I’m Doctor J.”
Absolutely not.
“Remember that ball we used to use in the ABA? The red, white, and blue one? Stylish ball.”
Stop it. You are not Doctor J.
“Oh, yeah. I can slam that rock. Put that biscuit in the gravy.”
“Does Bobby think he’s Doctor J again?”
Who’s that?
Oh, hey: it’s Bobby’s Parish, Matt Busch.
“That’s not my job title.”
It’s not wrong, though.
“No. Anyway, does Bobby think he’s Doctor J again?”
Yes.
“Dammit. Ah, well, it’s better than when he thought he was Marvin ‘Bad News’ Barnes.”
I didn’t know Bobby was so into the ABA.
“He’s obsessed with failed sports leagues. The ABA, the USFL, that soccer league that had Pele for a while in the 80’s.”
Wow. Never would’ve guessed. Oh, yeah: what are you doing here?
“Rando War.”
That’s George R.R. Martin. He writes the books with the snow and the zombies and the castles and all that shit.
“Sure, but he’s a rando to someone.”
NO. Not entertaining this stupid argument anymore.
“I win Rando War.”
Yes, you do.
“I’m a dog now.”
Yes, you are.
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