Foreign Language

Posted by Pimplepopper on September 9, 2007 · Leave a Comment

The wife and I barged into the bookstore and made a beeline toward the reason for our being there. We searched frantically and we searched sexily, but no amount of franticness or sexiness can produce the volume on which hinges the success of our happiness. Books dealing in bizaarre topics like cosmetic dentistry in San Diego, and practicing martial arts while working for the government were present, but not the ones we were looking for.

“WE NEED TO ASK SOMEONE!” my wife exclaimed frantically.

“I KNOW! BUT WHO?!” I replied sexily.

“IF ONLY THERE,” my wife paused to catch her breath. “WAS SOME SORT OF GUARDIAN IN THIS STORE OF BOOKS UPON WHO WE CAN ASK ABOUT OUR DILEMMA!”

“LIKE A BOOKSTORE AGENT. OR STORE MASTER!” I said as I removed my shirt and slammed it on the floor in triumph.

“Uh excuse me?” said a timid voice from somewhere at the end of the aisle.

“Well?” I said impatiently. “Speak up young knave! We have pressing matters that demand our attention!”

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