I was sitting at home this last Sunday, finishing up a fascinating paper on postcolonial geographies in Flann O'Brien's The Third Policeman when I thought I would procrastinate--er, give Greg a call.
Me: "Hey, how's it going at the house."
Me: "What's wrong? Plumbing? Electrical? Termites? Just tell me."
Greg: "No, it's just that I found more treasure."
Me: "OK, what?"
Greg: "A half-eaten chicken bone."
Me: "....ooooh, ewwww, that's soooo grosssss."
Greg: "Yeah. I know. I'm the one that cleaned it up."
Greg: "At least we know we don't have rats."