Pat and Trite, the Obvious Sisters, are in town this week for the Nothing Special Convention, held somewhere, whenever the time feels right. I won't be there either.
Pat and Trite, the Obvious Sisters, are my roll models. They model shoelaces, and while they're distracted with that, sometimes they start to roll downhill. Pretty neat.
Pat and Trite, the Obvious Sisters, superheroes at large, whenever they have time to get around to it. Most likely some evening after bowling practice, if the weather is good.
Pat and Trite, the Obvious Sisters, are still at it. They want me to come by and watch them watch TV together, then write about it in my diary. For posterity. Then when they've approved the final edit, they'll burn the diary and have cookies and milk with their pet pig. "What's in it for me?" I asked, which was when they said I could skip the milk and go straight to cookies and beer, if I didn't tell anyone about it. So maybe.
Pat and Trite, the Obvious Sisters, want me to paint my toenails, to see if it's as creepy as they've heard tell. If I go along with this, I get to pet the dog, but I hate dogs, so maybe they'll let me have sex with both of them instead. (The sisters, not the dogs.) We could be watching reruns of "Lassie" while this is going on to keep it interesting I guess, at least for them.
Pat and Trite, the Obvious Sisters, wanted to take me bowling, or at least that's what I thought. What they actually wanted to do was to shop for knicknacks for their friend Brenda, who doesn't have any yet — acquiring "The Knacks" is sort of a rite-of-passage, coming-of-age situation among their social group. Well, what could I say? Now after sixteen hours of relentless shopping I'm properly knackered, but without having to roll any balls around, which is how I prefer it in case I have a choice.
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Me? Recently photographed not picking my nose in public.
