If 007 were a Sportswriter
Mike called me from the Arena tonight. "Hey," he said casually, "I was wondering if you'd, uh, seen my purple shirt around."
"Woo hoo!" I answered. It's not that I actually care much about Mike's purple shirt aside from wishing it would permanently disappear, but this was code. We had prearranged this message months ago, so that when Mike got a coveted seat on press row at the basketball game he could tell me to turn the TV on without looking like a doofus in front of the other sportswriters. "Channel 34?" I asked.
"Ten. Cause the game starts at Seven," he answered with all the cunning of the KGB.
"Channel Ten?" I confirmed.
"That would be the channel. I mean, ah shit." Valerie Plame he is not, but he's close.
Mike looked very handsome on TV, even when scratching his nose, which he did so many times that I wondered if it was a Carol Burnett thing and he was trying to get me a message. He says no.
"Woo hoo!" I answered. It's not that I actually care much about Mike's purple shirt aside from wishing it would permanently disappear, but this was code. We had prearranged this message months ago, so that when Mike got a coveted seat on press row at the basketball game he could tell me to turn the TV on without looking like a doofus in front of the other sportswriters. "Channel 34?" I asked.
"Ten. Cause the game starts at Seven," he answered with all the cunning of the KGB.
"Channel Ten?" I confirmed.
"That would be the channel. I mean, ah shit." Valerie Plame he is not, but he's close.
Mike looked very handsome on TV, even when scratching his nose, which he did so many times that I wondered if it was a Carol Burnett thing and he was trying to get me a message. He says no.
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