“Patrick, listen-I’m not s’pose to
talk to you. You know that I’m not suppose to chat with you, didn’t you see
where it was scripted? “
“Judith, listen, just because God
apparently loves your people more than he loves my people, doesn’t mean that
we’re not all the same colors under the sheet?”
“Patrick,
what in Abraham is that s’pose to mean?”
“I mean
think about it, you think if God really despised the Irish all that much he
wouldn’t of granted us the foundation for thy daily Guiness.”
“Patrick?”
“You guys
have manna from Heaven, we have ye olde potato from earth. Coincidence? I think
not.”
Judith continues to look at Patrick like his older sister
Amy looked at the fellow Groomsman at Chris’ wedding, when the hammered
groomsman Elmer Roos decided to take a dump in the punch bowl during the toast
and Granpa complained about their being the punch being a tad nutty..
“Listen,
I’m just as Jewish as you are. And I can prove,” Patrick begins to tug near his
camoflage GI Joe belt.
“All I can say is that if ten
percent is all they really took, then baby, innately speaking-I’m hung like a-“
“What was
that sound?” Judith Interrupts.
“Oh, It’s
just my intense Judaic self emanating through my every pore. Don’t you hear it?
Shalom. Shalom.”
“Patrick,”
Judith looks at Patrick again with her lips scrunched together like the
twisted-end of a balloon. After Father Warren performed his chemical palette
test, using something that resembled jumper cables affixed to a thermometer via
copious amounts of Duck Tape and scientifical proved that the punch bowl did
indeed contain finely defecated flecks of human feces, every single guest
immediately dropped their plastic cups, pretended to cough into their rolled
palms and immediately rushed to an over crowded Mens and Ladies, while an eight
year old Patrick, on the other hand, preceded to the now ghost town open bar
and wasted no time in treating himself, Allan, crazy uncle Steve and a few
other select cousins to a couple pitchers of beer as well as a few rounds of Super Solvent harbinger pomegranate schnapps, telling a reproachful
thick-eyebrowing scouring Warren a half hour later, that, at least, by the
precocious age of eight, he, Patrick A. McCrotch is capable of discerning the
difference between light Beer and a mudslide mixed with Tropical powdered tang.
Judith continues to look into Patrick’s eye like he knows something he’s not
supposed to know about, or that he simply knows too much.
“Patrick,
Listen, you know that we are not suppose to talk to each other. I mean. You
know that. It’s literally our ass. In fact, I’m surprised they haven’t yet said
anything.”
“You keep
saying that and I have no clue what you mean?”
‘Patrick, “
Judith pauses, “They see us at all times. They’re telling us what to do at all
times. In a few minuets, we’ll have to do this same take all again and you’ll
ignore me and none of this will ever see the light of day.”
“What?”
Patrick looks at Judith again, like she looked at him two minutes ago.
“Patrick,
if you want to know the answer, if you want to know what’s going on, all you
have to do is look out there.” Judith points to the hallway. Patrick sees
retarded Peruvian Victor, strutting past, clucking elbow limbs, pretending to
be a Chicken.
“Ohhhhhhh-kayyyyyyyyy.”
Patrick says. “Peruvian Victor is the answer?”
“Patrick!”
“Oh well,
so much for choking the old Chicken. See-I told you I wouldn’t go blind!”
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