Esteban: How are you feeling?
Weetabix: Like dog saliva.
Esteban: Yum.
Weetabix: (Watching a commercial for Hair Club for Men)The first rule about Hair Club: don’t talk about Hair Club. The second rule about Hair Club: you don’t talk about Hair Club.
Esteban: Yes, maybe you should stop reading that book… by the way, now that you’re done with The Vagina Monologues maybe you could take it out of the bathroom.
Weetabix: Why? Are you thratened by it? Do vaginas in the bathroom bother you?
Esteban: It’s all vagina-y and stuff.
Weetabix: Well, as long as you’ve got a good reason….
Esteban: Are you hungry for anything?
Weetabix: No, but if I had to eat something, I could eat Fudge fluffs and chicken & stars soup with goldfish crackers floating in it.
Esteban: Fudge fluffs are bad for you…. I thought you wanted to lose part of your butt?
Weetabix: I’ve lost part of my ass… down the fucking toilet. Seriously…. I think I’ve lost ten pounds. But I don’t really care. Anyway, it’s not like I binge on Fudge Fluffs or anything. I only eat them when I’m sick.
Esteban: Make a list and I’ll go to the store. I’m not buying you Fudge Fluffs. That’s junk food… it’s not going to be good for an upset stomach.
Weetabix: (makes a list on the computer, puts Fudge Fluffs on it in bold type, prints it off and hands it to Esteban)
Esteban: Do we need more cans of soup? Don’t we have like 23 cans or something?
Weetabix: I don’t want to run out. I may be sick all weekend.
Esteban: What’s this here in bold? Fudge Fluffs?
Weetabix: Just get them. Don’t be such a burgermeister.
Esteban: I’m not a burgermeister. Are you going to write in your diary about how I’m a burgermeister?
Weetabix: Bah. I already have.
Esteban: The people who read that thing must think you live with a troll.
Weetabix: No, they probably think you’re wonderful, because for some strange reason I think you’re wonderful…. Unless you don’t bring me Fudge Fluffs…. Which will make you a freaking burgermeister.
Esteban: What the heck is that? Burgermeister? Wasn’t that an arcade game? With a little chef who ran over the components of a hamburger, being chased by a fried egg.
Weetabix: That was Burger Time. If you want to see a burgermeister…. Look in the mirror.
Esteban: And this is the girl for whom I’m traveling to the grocery store… with a list… with BOLD type on it…
Weetabix: I may hurl at any moment and then you’ll be sorry that you taunted me so. (dramatic sigh) Will you miss me when I die?
Esteban: Sheesh. I can tell that you’re really sick. The martyr whine factor is tenfold.
Weetabix: No… you’re not a burgermeister or anything.
Esteban:(grins and exits, list in hand)
(Yes. He bought me the Fudge Fluffs. That’s how he likes to do things… pretend he’s not going to do them and then does them anyway. If that doesn’t make him a burgermeister, I don’t know what does.)
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