“Don’t get sick in here, Nogin,” said Bob the bartender. “It’s not my fault you rode the Ferris wheel for 2 hours and then came in here for a couple of margaritas.”
“Carousel… *next*,” he gruffed as he looked over at Grassy and Sassy doing the same. Stay in motion, he decides. Because if still — this. *Head* in motion. Stomach.
“Well, yeah, why don’t you go ride the carousel over there — away from me — and get sick off it. I’m sure Bud (carousel operator today) won’t mind, ha.”
“BLEEHHHHH.”
“Great. *Thanks*, Nogin.”
“You’re BLEEEHHHH… welcome.”
—–
“Little hard for me to skate in these tennis shoes.”
“I’m doing just fine in my slick sassy boots,” his Mmmmmm partner returned, gliding along with much less effort. Good thing Grassy is 5x bigger or he wouldn’t be able to keep up.
Does she have to name *everything* she wears after herself? he ponders while struggling onwards. Well: 2. Gloves and boots. And the occasional “sassy” hat.
“What about that guy getting sick at the Beach Bar?” said Sassy over. “Sick and sick and *sick*. I could still hear him throwing up when we left the park to come down here.”
“Why we chose not to stick around for the Ferris wheel,” spoke Grassy. Else why would I be *here*, he thinks.
—–
“Oh God, there he starts *again*. Just when you thought it was over.”
“Let’s skip the margaritas and go straight back to the cottage for some Alka-seltzer.”
“Good idea.”
—–
“Oh (‘BLEEEHHH’), yet *another* present, Nogin. Christmas keeps coming and coming (‘BLEHHH’).” Where *are* those paramedics? Bob thinks.
Sunklands 