There have been startling reports of men and women trapped in their lounge rooms, bodies hunched, eyebrows bunched, fingers desperately mashing.
“Zelda…” they mutter as they ignore your question of what they want for dinner, whether they did that thing you asked, and your entire existence.
They want to save Zelda, but who is she and why does your significant other have an almost encyclopedic knowledge of her kidnap history?
These are the questions one woman loudly asked her friends at the bar I was at last week.
Her boyfriend was meant to join them but had "decided to stay home and play" instead. Apparently he had "decided to take a sick day" to play that week, too. I tried not to eavesdrop but I've also never been one to turn down a free show.
The woman stood up from the table, thrust her hands into the air and shouted in mimicry, "Buttt BAYYYBE, HAVE YOU SEEN THE HORSE?!"
Her friends burst into a Greek chorus of:
"That's me!"
"My HUSBAND!"
"My SON!"
Well, guess what: I know her. I know Zelda. I have been saving that chick for years.
