Friday, June 16, 2006

How About Passing the Time by Playing a Little Solitaire?

What’s the matter with her? Hey, Shimmy, what about my robe? What’s your personal advice? May I take this thing off now, Shimmy?

How many Communists did you say? Can you see the red queen?

You will be taken for a checkup -- is that clear? What’s your last name? What’s your last name? The letter? Have you got the letter?

What sort of greeting is that at 3:30 in the morning? Are you sure they’re coming to the party, Shimmy? Are you absolutely sure?

What are you supposed to be, one of those Dutch skaters? Why don’t we just sneak away for a few minutes and sit down somewhere quietly and stare out the window?

Shimmy, why don’t you pass the time by playing a little solitaire?

Aren’t you going to pop champagne, or dance in the streets, or at least slide your food dish around the kitchen floor? Fifty-two red queens and me are telling you -- you know what we’re telling you?

3 Comments:

Anonymous Aaron said...

So, is that it? Is that your explanation for why you assaulted me while I was retrieving the mail while Tony and Shelly were gone? Forcing me to use The New Yorker as a shield? You were being brainwashed by Henry Silva and Angela Lansbury?

I don't buy it, feline.

4:52 PM  
Blogger Shimmy said...

What was Raymond doing with his hands? How did the old ladies turn into Russians? You don't understand the arrangement we have, Aaron. You see, as soon as the New Yorker comes in the mail, they place it on the sofa for me. What was Raymond doing with his hands? How did the old ladies turn into Russians? What was Raymond doing with his hands? I rub myself on the sofa as if I've never touched it before. What were you doing there? What was Raymond doing with his hands? I jump on the sofa. Prance on the New Yorker. What were you doing there? What were you doing there? I fall asleep on the magazine. If the magazine is on the sofa and I'm sleeping on it, then I won't hiss. It's all very simple.

6:16 PM  
Blogger AlexG said...

Shimmy dear -- we've all fallen asleep on The New Yorker.

7:44 PM  

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