Mary: Hey, Joey, come here, come here. Adam’s an author!
Joey: A blog about ironic alliteration that no one reads does not qualify him as an author.
Mary: No. It’s a real book. The one about him and Nina. Remember?
Joey: Did he mention us?
Mary: How should I know? I just got it.
Joey: I hope he didn’t say nothin’ about the gerbils.
Mary: Well it would serve you right for kidding around all the time.
Joey: Let me see it.
Mary: Be careful. Don’t crease the pages.
Joey: It’s a book. You can’t read it without turning the pages.
Mary: Just be gentle.
Joey: Look at this. He says I shit like clockwork.
Mary: Well you do.
Joey: But the whole friggin’ world doesn’t have to know it.
Mary: Everyone who knows you already knows your schedule. The rest of the world doesn’t care. Plus it’s fiction.
Joey: Fiction? Listen to this. He says I sometimes try to talk like a Mafioso. That ain’t no fiction.
Mary: They say authors should write about stuff they know. So sometimes there’s some truth mixed in with the fiction.
Joey: So now you’re a literary critic?
Mary: I read everything on Oprah’s list.
Joey: Wait a minute here’s something about you.
Mary: What did he say?
Joey: He says you’re a no-nonsense matriarch with a bellowing voice like a sports announcer. He says you’re a clean freak and you always cook too much when we have company.
Mary: He’s a good boy.
Joey: You always liked him best.
Mary: But you’re a close second.
Joey: Does that mean it’s time to get the gerbils?