Me: “You tried to catch a fly last night.”

Tweak: “I did not.”

Me: “I saw you.”

Tweak: “You didn’t film it.” (Sort of a question.)

Me: “No, I was too busy not laughing.”

Tweak: “You shouldn’t let those revolting mouth-breathers in the house.”

Me: “I don’t LET them in, Tweak. Flies are Spartan warriors. They are the hyena of insects. They find the path of least resistance to the stench of rotting meat. And shattered ambitions.”

Tweak: “They taste with their feet.”

Me: “Flies don’t breathe through their mouths. They take in oxygen through their skin.”

Tweak: “They barf on their food. YOUR food.”

Me: “The plate on their back is called a ‘scutum.’ Flies are scutum-breathers.”

(The fur on Tweak’s back has a seizure.)

Me: “So why didn’t you catch the fly? Bowie catches badgers.”

Tweak: “That dog is a scutum-breather.”

Me: “Flies only live a couple of weeks. You still have time.”

Tweak: “To commit suicide? Here, hold my scutum.”

 

12 July 2014, “Tolerating Tweak”