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The curse of witty retort

“Well this all looks in order” expresses the bank manager gleefully.
“Your mum looks in order” he responds.
“Sorry, What?” the manager responds set back by the comment.
“I mean your face is in order” immediately looking embarrassed. “Wait no I’ll get it, just give me a minute. Ah… ah… Thank you. That’s what I meant. It was right on the tip of my tongue. I hate when that happens, don’t you?
“Get out” the manager said turning back to his computer.
“Yea that’s more than reasonable. Thanks for your time.” He said standing and walking out of the office in a muted hurry.
What a terrible time for his stupid witticisms to flare up again. It had cost him his job, his relationship and now just when he was getting back on his feet he insults the bank manager who was about to help him stave off bankruptcy. He headed off down the local to drown his sorrows. He never had any wit related trouble while drunk. According to his doctors it’s the first thing to go under the influence of alcohol in many circumstances.
This solution had not worked well in daily life. A mix of recklessly drunk and obnoxiously sober had led to the downturn in home and work life. No happy medium was ever struck, just seesawing from one to the other.
He edged gingerly up to the bar and nervously asked for 2 beers. This was going well. Down these beers and he’d be right. A rush of alcohol through the veins would flush the wit out.
“Midi or schooner glasses love?” the barmaid acquired chirpily.
“Your mum’s your dad.” Darn it “I meant schooners,” He handed over the correct change in coin, then threw some more down a tip or apology, she could work out which. He scurried away from her angry glare to a table he found hidden away from the main bar and sunk deep into the chair. The beers didn’t stand a chance, being violently engulfed at speed. He returned back to confront the barmaid to repeat the order and this time it passes without the wit induced awkwardness from earlier but still under a blazing glare. He returned to the new found haven of his recently declared favourite table.
His sister strolled up and sat down opposite him, he stared at her drinks, one in each hand just like him, and both for personal consumption. She had come to ‘comfort’ him, but normally this mainly meant a life lecture, one that he had heard many times but he would always put up with. She meant well and she was his sister, what could he do but love her for it.
“Heard you had trouble again?” She said knowingly, he’d been the one to tell her.
“Yea, same old trouble.” He felt relieved that the words came out right. The beer was working.
She spoke quietly and softly. “You know my thinking on the problem. I know you don’t like it but it’s your only solution.”
Playing dumb wasn’t an option. But he took it anyway.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You know, my Tourettes theory, people will forgive you for your outbursts if you tell them it’s Tourettes” she stated softly.
“But it’s not Tourettes, I know it and you know it.” He cried while trying not to yell.
“Does it matter if it’s not, it looks the same from outside.” She queried.
“I can’t just lie like that; I don’t want that stigma following me around”.
“What stigma, tourettes or lying? How would anyone know about either? Do you prefer the stigma of being an asshole wise mouth? Because that’s what your lugging around now.” She was upset and she wanted him to know.
“Why can’t everyone just be fine with the disease i have, if they want to i can underline it with ‘kind of like tourettes but not’. I can right it on my business cards” he snarled.
“You don’t have a business anymore.” She responded snappily with a sly smirk.
“Ouch…. harsh lady” he sunk further into his chair.
“You need a drink?” she offered, more a truce than an offer.
“That’s what she said” they shared a look, his head dropped.
“Damn it, I meant yes please” he corrected himself.
“Something strong by the sound of it” she offered.
“Yea a bucket of jack or a gun”. He said, surprising himself.
“Was that you or the wit” she said, standing and leaning on the back of her chair.
“I’m hoping wit” he puzzles.
“You worry me” she says starkly
“Yea. I know” apologies in his words.

The curse of witty retort

rowand

Sydney, Australia

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Artist's Description

smart ass may be a disease

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  • Vimm
  • rowand
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