A Stiletto City Moment

Arriving at Shburbank Airport yesterday, Plot and Duck walked to the taxi stand. As the taxi drove up, Duck noticed she had a message on her cell from The Great BeeziWeezi. So she called The Big Shmapple and began talking to BZ as the taxi driver drove away.

The driver was Armenian. Like Plot's ribs, Mr. Khachaglagian's English was bruised but functioning. The moment after he turned left on Vineland Avenue, he picked up his cell and made a call. He may have been talking to his wife, because he kept saying "ZHHHZHHGLXLFGZ (Armenian) SORRY! (English) SJZKLLSKFHVG (Armenian)." So now the driver was talking on his cel and Duck was talking on her cell.

The cab weaved through traffic. "This is SO Stiletto City," Plot thought, already planning how he would blog about it, but he was unable to think further because his cell phone rang. It was his nephew Nefnik. So as the taxi flew up the hill towards Mummy Plotnik's house, Duck yakked to BZ, Plot gabbed to Fefnik, and Mr. Khachaglagian apologized continually to Mrs. Khachaglagian.

Their is something really absurd about this situation, and Plot would discuss it more, but he is having a good time listening to the two men sitting next to him in Peet's, talking about reality shows and styling and TV and their hair. The guy talking most about his hair doesn't have any. Wadda town.

Jane, tune out here. Plotnik watched Greg Maddux throw six pretty danged amazing innings last night. He forgot how much he hates him, and started loving him a lot.