JOSHUA GREEN ALLEN. (crotchety female voice) Son? Son, is that you?

“FABULOUS” MITCHELL ALLEN. Mom?

JGA. (mean old lady voice) You have been such a disappointment to me, Mitchell. Especially when it comes to stocking stuffers and making your poor old mother find things at the Walgreens for everybody, as if I could even afford little deodorants and fancy nuts for the whole family!

FMA. Mother, we agreed we weren’t doing stockings this year! But you went ahea—

JGA. (cackling hag voice) I’m just glad you’re not my only son. Thank you Our Lord Jesus Christ for blessing me with at least one child who has healthy sperm and can drive stick!

FMA. (pause) This is Josh, isn’t it.

JGA. Ha ha!

FMA. That sounded just like her.

JGA. I know, right?

FMA. But I mean c’mon dude, we all said no stocking stuffers. We voted on it. It’s all goddamn bullshit—her exact words!

JGA. No one’s fighting you on this, Fab. Although that mini-deodorant has gotten way more use than the talking car-lady you got me.

FMA. That GPS cost three-hundred and fifty large. And you never use it because you just call me whenever you get lost, which is whenever you get in the car and make any sort of left or right turn or get on a freeway or come to an intersection.

JGA. Funny you should bring that up.

FMA. Oh come on. You just called like an hour ago.

JGA. Mitch, I did exactly what you said and totally got out of that cul-de-sac, but then you left me hanging! I had to improvise and everything went to fucking shit!

FMA. OK, calm down.

JGA. I tried talking to the car-lady and she was basically rude and bossy about the whole thing so I just said, you know, I said: Why don’t you make a U-turn when safe to do so—onto my johnson.

FMA. Good one. Shut that bitch down. So where are you now.

JGA. I have no idea! All the signs are in Spanish!

FMA. You’re at Acapulco’s, aren’t you.

JGA. These six margs for the price of five won’t drink themselves. Or will they? Come on down here, let’s get to the bottom of this mystery.

FMA. No. I have to vacuum and then do something about the shower.

JGA. Whoa, hold everything! Are you saying there’s a young lady of the female persuasion coming over tonight?

FMA. It’s a possibility. Word is she likes guys who lease their own car.

JGA. And she might be in a position to inspect the carpeting or the shower?

FMA. I try to create my own luck.

JGA. God bless ya. Kick things off at Acapulco’s, then. Five—uh, two drinks are on me, and she can meet your big brother.

FMA. Yeah, about that…

JGA. She’ll get all flabbergasted. She’ll think to herself: I’ve met the perfect man, but he is so out of my league. Yes, me, the waitress-in-training at the cafeteria for old people with gross diseases. Well, I may as well settle for someone in his gene pool. I better take whatever I can get before this old biological clock dries up and shuts down for good—

FMA. She’s not menopausal.

JGA. Who knows what your type is these days.

FMA. I’m going to stick to my rule of not introducing girlfriends to you until they’re already kind of sick of me and looking for an excuse.

JGA. OK whatever. Good luck with all that. Way to quash the brodacious vibe over here.

FMA. Don’t be like that. I’ll make it up to you. Listen: I know a guy who can get us these big bags of irregular candy, like factory rejects? Five bucks for enough mutated Twizzlers to make you wonder what kind of God could create such a thing.

JGA. (pause) Last-minute save, Fab. Love it. I’ll call you in an hour so you can tell me how to get home.

FMA. Kay. And I’ll figure out once and for all how to turn this phone off.

JGA. (crabby septuagenarian voice) You’re out of the will, sonny! Say goodbye to my collection of strangers’ baby teeth I got on eBay!

—click—