"Ah, go on, have some more wine!"
Smiling, I shook my head and turned towards the bearded man lying on my sofa. His hand resting gently on a dog, his feet on a turtle, he looked every bit the part of an old-testament Dr. Dolittle. But he was not Dolittle, he was Noah, and he was beginning to outstay his welcome.
"Not even a little? It's good," He continued, "I made it myself, you know..."
"Yes." I nodded, "But I remember what happened the last time you got drunk old fellow. I disapprove of my house-guests providing anything that can be used to rationalise slavery. Besides, you've got to keep a clear head - you promised you'd get that Ark off of my lawn tomorrow. My parents are coming, remember?
And they bloody hate boats."
There was no response, but after a moment, I detected the faint noise of gentle snoring. Sighing, I turned off the lights and headed for bed. My parents weren't coming tomorrow, but I didn't feel bad about lying. After all, God wasn't flooding the earth again either, so Noah was acting under false pretenses as well. To be honest, I think he's just lonely these days, and I understand that. But you can't just force your way into some-one's house, call them evil, fill it with animals, and turn the tool-shed into a surprisingly large boat. No sir.
Still, it must be difficult being an antediluvian Patriarch.
4 comments:
Tell your parents it's not a boat. It's an ark. They should really read a book. The Book, actually.
Actually, they're one-eyed cyclops mutants. As such, they have no depth perception, and attempts to buy books end with them flailing madly at shelves they think are closer. This, in turn, attracts angry, anti-mutant mobs, who chase them.
I hope you're happy...
I could get them an audio book though...
Actually, I am happy. My parents are an angry anti-mutant mob.
They should do lunch.
Wait... Your parents are a whole mob?
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