I've laughed until I cried at his antics.
I've hesitated to share him, that he be not misunderstood.
I've explained him, that he be not an offense.
Yet the fact of the matter is, Mr. Benson has definitely taken up residence in our humble abode.
He stopped by last night, just to chide me on my (in his estimation) unnecessary complaint that my son had been eating the computer bandwith by watching and untold number of episodes of Lost.
Mr. Benson: "Bandwidth, bandwidth, bandwidth! That's yer complaint, eh?"
Me: [staring him down, recognizing his sudden appearance]
Mr. Benson: "We're really tired of hearing yer bellyachin' about this. You've missed nothing. Meanwhile, when YOU use the wireless, YOU eat MY bandwidth, and my show goes something like this:
[turning head in short staccato action, never quite actually changing perspective]
'W- . . . w- . . .we . . . we' - . . .'
The words never fully come out, you see. So, I'm sorry, but we cannot accept yer claim at this time. Thank you."
At this, my son suddenly reappears, all smiles at his most recent performance, the likes of which have caused me to sigh in resignation the fact that I've still years to parent this boy.
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