John From Cincinnati
His Visit: Day Six

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Mr. Sobell: C+ | Grade It Now!
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Are You There, God? It's Me, Weirdo

Inside Butchie's room -- where Butchie and Kai are not fucking, OK Cissy? -- Kai tells Butchie that she saw him out in the water this morning. "I got your boards outside," she adds. Butchie looks up from the hole that he's been staring in the floor to regard Kai with greater warmth than ever before. So intensive is his gaze that he doesn't pick up his ringing cell phone...

...To receive the call that Bill is placing. "Every call I make, afterwards, I got to use a cuticle scissors," Bill tells Shaunie, while waiting for Butchie to pick up. When he doesn't, Bill leaves a message: "Butchie? Message from Bill Jacks. Shaunie's over here with me. So you may just want to call or, you know, get over here." Bill hangs up. "Voicemail. Not there," he informs Shaun before picking up a book "that deals with anniversaries of people that are dead...there's various chapters, helping the bereaved be at ease." Sounds like light bedtime reading. Or possibly the source of night terrors. "What this has to do you with, thirteen years old," Bill says -- "Fourteen," Shaun corrects him -- "Fourteen years of age," Bill continues. "And thank God you've lost no one to feel grief over the anniversary of." On the downside, that's really going to affect Shaun's ability to write mopey poems about death to try and make girls think he's sensitive, not that I spent several months of my teenage years doing precisely that, no sir. Bill's point for trotting out his Necromonacon or whatever the heck his book of the dead is, is this: "People are sad for various reasons. And sometimes an outside source is required, even to help them know they feel sad. Or, if they know, offer them helpful hints, suggestions, ways to deal with the problem." And if you're looking for such a source, might I suggest Tedious, Out-of-Meter Poems About Death That Didn't Convince Girls To Make Out With Me, by Mr. Sobell, Age Sixteen, available for a very attractive price. I oughta get some return on my investment. Bill, who has become increasingly uncomfortable with this conversation, stashes his book under the couch mattress. "May I be frank with you?" he asks Shaun. "You reek of marijuana smoke." That is perhaps because he smoked a joint before coming here, Shaun confesses. "And you tell me that, without shyness or remorse," Bill fumes. There's the uptight, non-linear Bill I've grown to know and love.

Back at the Snug Harbor, Cissy continues to wait for Dickstein, and Cunningham continues to hold his tray of cups. "That doctor is about to get an ass-fucking from his hospital," Cissy observes out of nowhere. Before Cunningham can inquire as to the nature, length, and ferocity of said ass-fucking, Kai emerges from Butchie's room, and Cissy decides it's been too long since she laid into someone. "Good to see," she sneers at Kai. "I remember when we used to meet at work." Kai doesn't point out that she could say the same thing and continues walking to her jeep, where Butchie's boards are stashed in the back. Cissy starts retreating back to where she was standing before when Butchie walks out of the room. Hey -- someone else to yell at! Cissy stops dead in her tracks and starts moving toward him, muttering, "I feel like a duck in a shooting gallery." Ha! "Hid 'em before I could sell 'em," Butchie marvels as he sees the boards in Kai's jeep. Just then, his phone beeps with message from Bill as to Shaun's whereabouts; Butchie says he'll head on over, and Kai gives him a ride. On the way to the jeep, Butchie and Cissy exchange looks -- they do not appear to be hostile ones, but they're not all that happy, either.

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John From Cincinnati

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