Larry bought the boys recorders.
I’m sorry. I don’t understand. What synapses collaborated in his brain to make him think this would be a wise—OH MY GOD, GUS!—the child just SPRINTED up to my ear and attempted to blow every fiber of his being through the mouthpiece of that thing, and I swear to God, tearsare falling out of my ears.
Or is that blood?
Gus calls his recorder a saxamaphone, but I assure you, it sounds nothing like a saxamaphone. Or a saxophone. Or any kind of phone, really. It sounds like the overture to a Broadway musical entitled MOMMY LIVES IN A HOTEL NOW (AND SHE WON’T TELL ANY OF US WHICH ONE).
I’m sorry. I don’t understand. What synapses collaborated in his brain to make him think this would be a wise—OH MY GOD, GUS!—the child just SPRINTED up to my ear and attempted to blow every fiber of his being through the mouthpiece of that thing, and I swear to God, tearsare falling out of my ears.
Or is that blood?
Gus calls his recorder a saxamaphone, but I assure you, it sounds nothing like a saxamaphone. Or a saxophone. Or any kind of phone, really. It sounds like the overture to a Broadway musical entitled MOMMY LIVES IN A HOTEL NOW (AND SHE WON’T TELL ANY OF US WHICH ONE).
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