Karson Valenti's Voice Mail

[enrages]

"NO, WAL-MART, I'M NOT GOING TO RETURN YOUR FUCKING CALLS. I APPLIED TO YOUR SHITTYASS STORE, LIKE, A GODDAMN YEAR AGO. I DON'T. WANT. THE. JOB. STOP CALLING.

If you're not Wal-Mart or a telemarketer, just leave a message, and I'll probably get back to you eventually. Seriously, though, this is 2012. Why the hell aren't you using something that's suitably futuristic and technologically advanced, like text messages or email? Who the fuck calls people anymore, I me---"

*beeeep*

Comments

[enrages]

[ he skipped forward a fuckton of pages, so he just starts reading: ]

"...causes the salivary glands to dry out, which allows the mouth's acids to eat away at the tooth enamel." Bam. I'm reading, asshole.

[counterclock]

You weren't on that page. Go back. To the one about how meth changes your brain chemistry to make it so you can't feel joy anymore.

[Like a sentinel, she folds her arms and refuses to budge.]

[enrages]

RUGHURHGURHGUHRUGHRUHGURHGURHUGHRUGHURRUUGHHHHHHH.

[ fine. he does it. goddamnit. the things he will do for food. ]

[counterclock]

[She waits until he's read every single word of the last three infographics and then she gives a solemn nod, and turns on her heel to fetch the chicken strips.] What sauce do you want?

[enrages]

None. Sauce ruins it.

[counterclock]

Sauce is the best part, ya fuckin' weirdo. [She gets the chicken in any case, and it's still mostly warm so she doesn't expect him to bitch. She comes back over and slides the chicken across the table to him, then holds her hand out for her phone.]

Now have we learned something today, or do I need to google more pictures of meth mouth.

[enrages]

No, no, no, don't fucking do it, jesus, no. [ TAKE UR FUCKIN PHONE DEVOURING EVERY CHICKEN ]