“Great Caesar’s debit card!” said the Original Soupster, pushing away the computer keyboard, frustrated. “Fireweed scramble!”
“Uncle,” said the Soupster. “Calm down. Just tell me what it is you’re trying to access.”
“Access? What do you mean access?” said the Original Soupster. “Don’t give me that Greek plaster! Speak English!”
The Soupster took a deep breath. His uncle lived in a village even smaller than Our Town. Yet the older man insisted on buying a GPS navigation system for his car and then proceeded to get lost in the tiny burg he had inhabited for the last quarter century. As a young man, the Soupster had learned to hypnotize himself on visits by staring at the constantly flashing “12:00” on his uncle’s digital alarm clock and later on his VHS tape deck.
“By Abraham’s peapod,” said Original, ending his nephew’s reverie. “Why can’t you just put them all in a book?”
“What in a book?” asked the Soupster. “What do you want?!”
“Butterpaddle!” said Original. “I want to read your story about the married dog who drives.”
“Oh, you want to read an old Our Town column from the Soup,” said the Soupster, admittedly relieved and also complimented. “All the Our Town columns are archived on the Soup’s Internet website. You should learn to use it.”
“I know that, Soupster, you frontloader,” said the Original one. “Don’t you think I know that?”
“Then what’s the problem?”
“I never push the right buttons!” said Original.
Oh, really? The Soupster thought dryly. I’d say you were a champion button pusher.
But what the Soupster said was: “All right, all right,” and dutifully retrieved a hard copy of an old Soup that contained the Our Town column with the married dog who drives. He handed it to Original, who grunted with approval.
The Soupster answered a knock at the door and found his friend Sadie on his front step, her hat, literally in her hand. “I want to take you up on the offer to lend me a space heater in case it gets cold again,” she said “And do you have an extra pair of sunglasses in case it gets sunny? Oh, and a sturdy umbrella for hail. You know how it is this time of year.”
The Soupster attempted to launch his opinion on the coming changeable weather, but was cut short by a big grunt from Original Soupster, who then came bursting onto the scene.
“Bazooka Joe, you crinkle fry,” said Original, waving the Our Town column in the air like a burning torch. “This is my favorite ‘Our Town.’ You do have a way with the words, Slugbait!”
Editor’s Note: The Our Town column with “the married dog who drives” can be found HERE.
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