You’re An Unsanitary Disgrace
for a spa-like experience- maybe they didn’t have enough windows open
- “Not exactly.”
- Whatever his parentage,
- visions of putting on my mountain boots
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“You’re an unsanitary disgrace,” Jim drawled. The twin babies on his knees stared at me.
Employing a loop of duct tape to remove seagull feathers — and worse — from my clothes, I said, “My trip upstairs did not make for a spa-like experience. You’re welcome.”
Jim gently guided my infant son’s hand in a salute. My daughter frowned at him.
The noisy argument between Fleur and Isolde abruptly ceased. They were looking out the window at something below us. I moved to the nearest window and saw that one of the barges had resurfaced.
“Do you think maybe they didn’t have enough windows open? So they couldn’t stay sunk?” Isolde looked embarrassed that she’d asked that out loud.
“Not exactly.” Fleur pointed down. “It’s the film festival people. They’re hijackers, and they’re still trying to get to Hawaii.”
“Then we should follow them,” I said.
“I’m not going to tag along after some trashy, film-snob sonofabitch,” Fleur declared.
“Whatever his parentage,” I said, “if he knows which way to go then we should take advantage of that.”
“We’ll just turn on the GPS,” Fleur said, stomping forward to the control panel and jabbing a button. A map lit up in front of Jim’s seat, showing our position very clearly.
“That’s been there all along?” I asked my wife through clenched teeth, my head filled with visions of putting on my mountain boots and kicking her in the shins.
But I had no mountain boots, here in the zeppelin. I peeled off a strip of duct tape.
bonus points for using them in order