~(~: “Well, it’s just a pop song. And, he’s not on a sinking ship; he’s stranded on a deserted island. The guy is ready to immediately die from loneliness. It’s probably about Sting [lead singer for The Police] dying to be with a hot woman – a sexy lady like me. Yes, just some very excusable poetic license exercised, if you ask me.”

  ^|^: “Speaking of messages in bottles, did you hear about the one that turned up after Hurricane Sandy?”

  [the sounds of coughing, throat-clearing and sneezing]

  ~(~: “The guy in coastal New Jersey who got back the note that he tossed in the drink when he was 12, back in 1963? [starts singing] Late December, back in ’63 …”

  33: “Hey, hey, hey; you’re no epik [sic] all-leaguer singer.” Epic all-leaguer singer? What does that mean?

  ~(~: “And you’re not, either, 33.” She’s completely right.

  ^|^: “Will you two please stop it?! You are acting like coarse schoolkids in a fine trapezoidal sandbox.” He must have read that line somewhere. / He stole that.

  33: “Trapezoidal? Never saw a trapezoid-shaped sandbox on any playground. Not once. Nowhere.”

 

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