It’s not my problem if you can’t keep your dog under control. Now get the fuck out of here before I call the cops. Yeah, you heard me. I’ll call the cops and I will. We can’t have your dog running around in here, doing all the things that your dog has been doing since you and your dog arrived here at this establishment. This is a private establishment where the public choose to gather to spend their free time forgetting in piano retirement plans.
Yeah, I hear you, you’ve got a point. Our piano player is loud and obnoxious. As bad as Sam of the Sahara pushing his upright all around the establishment. Running all around singing bad blues and sad tunes and stewing in the general sentimental slosh of base human psychology.
Me? I have no tolerance for the stuff, emotion or understanding emotion or active listening or any of it. I’d just as soon kick the dog, the “piano man” and your ass to the curb, as well as all these other deadbeats hanging around. Maybe send you and your wife off on a private jet to nowhere, Argentina or somewhere. Then I’ll put my cigarette out (I’m the last human alive who smokes and don’t you forget it because I own the damn place) and I’ll walk straight for the Sahara, the sand blowing all around.
You can’t see the stains on my suit because they filmed this in black and white, before “tracking” was a thing, but let me tell you, the stains are there, and they aren’t from the nicotine. They’re from the goddamn sand blowing all around, and the sun and the sweat, me crawling around lost like I always am, even though I run the joint. And let me tell you, sand will kill you faster than nicotine so light up another one, Sam, because I’m tired of the whole lot of you.
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