Betty Lou Has the Minor Key Blues

By Chris White, Rod Argent and Hugh Hamilton

"I'm a parent at last!" she screamed, her eyes dancing — or so it seemed.
"Really? How did this happen?" I wondered.
"Would you like me to go into detail?" she asked, but her inflection was unclear.
"Yes please."
"I found a baby in the chimney."
I paused.
"That's funny," I began, "I found a chimney in my baby."
"What?"
"Nothing."

If I settled for less, she wouldn't have taken my watch. Without it, I just keep bumping into things. The irony being that if I could find my way to the watch shop, I'd buy another one. It's a cruel, cruel world. Aside from that, though, life's pretty good. Especially if you can ignore those starving white kids in Africa. Which I could up until the point where one of them spoke to me in English. You don't want that to happen, really. You don't want to see them as real people. But when he spoke, he could have been my neighbour or my next door neighbour and my stiff lips quivered.
"All right," I said, "I'll fund your excursions."
"What?"
"Nothing. Here's a dollar."

Now I'm in a bit of a spot. If it wasn't for my collages, I wouldn't be able to cope at all. They are my livelyhood, you see. Though the critics invariably describe them as "derivative and uninspired", I know them to be ahead of their time and worthy of Mark Twain himself.

I walked in on her and she was with another man. Several other men, in fact. And women, too. They were having a business lunch at a café. Cunts.

"Hi."
"Hi."
"What?"
"Nothing."