…

S : … he said that? that’s hilarious. i remember the first time i saw you, on your death bed.

B : um … technically, that’s wrong. cause i’m not dead.

S : i can see that. but the doctors weren’t optimistic. the flesh from your ankle down was grazed off completely, minus a few dangling shreds. i saw your toes, naked. just white bones branching off from a thicker bone. it looked like a disgusting fluoride tree. they said you’d develop a gangrene, which will then intoxicate your blood and kill you. yea, i thought you were going to die. they told me so.

B : well, they eventually decided to chop off my drumstick, and what do you know ~ i’m still here! who needs crutches if you still have 2 arms and a leg!

S : i know! i thank the Pastafarian god for that! oh, baby … you are my hero! so brave, like Guevara. so strong, like an M2 Bradley. so charming, like Gatsby. so modest, handsome and blue.

B : hey, i have an idea. marry me! marry me and be merry! marry me and start an army. you should keep a goatee and pick up smoking, like all political revolutionaries of the past. shit, you’ll look stunning in a tight camouflage uniform. oh, do i love seeing you in mauve. hm. anyway, we’ll stage a coup and install a junta. we’ll take over the Central Bank and mint new coins that you’ll design. baby, no country in the world has coins in the shape of a paramecium. we’ll abolish the Printing Press Act!

S : yea! we’ll have a son and name him Yossarian.

B : hell, no! f*ck that. you’re such a copyright infringer. no, we’ll have a son and call him ~ Yossarian.

S : that’s perfect!

B : okay, but first you have to get me out of this blasted bloody borstal.