When We're Both Thirty

Hot... and Gross

"Why the fuck are you calling me? I said no calling me! I made that explicitly clear. Do you really want me to dismember you?"

"Okay first of all, ew," Frank says, "second of all, different circumstances, I figured I should call."

"There is literally never a good reason to call me. Never. Not ever. You could call anyone else in the world and it would be a good idea, but no. Do not call me," Gerard says. He might have repeated that a few too many times.

"You're unbearable," Frank says, "so whatever, I have a friend who's somehow interested in meeting you even though I told him about you with as much honesty as I could possibly muster, so basically, I told him that you look like the creature of the black lagoon. That didn't work, so maybe he's mentally unstable."

"Well aren't you a doll," Gerard says. "But I haven't had as much luck in finding anyone who could possibly put up with you, so it looks like you're going to be alone tonight like you are most other nights. Really the screening process would all be so much quicker if I could just show them a picture of you and then wait for the gagging and/or the running away screaming."

"That wouldn't be their reaction," Frank says, "I don't know, if I were someone else, I would want to get in my pants too."

"You're disgusting. You've already spent enough of your life falling in love with yourself in mirrors, you could at least try to act modest about it."

"Right so, I want to get off the phone with you really soon, because talking to you is making me lose some IQ points."

"Oh no. Anymore and you're intelligence will be less than the number of arms you have," Gerard says.

"Still more than you. You know I hear it was a record breaking discovery to have someone's IQ be in the negative digits. I've got to hand it to you on that one. I always thought you'd break records."

"Just tell me what it is you have to tell me, okay?" Gerard says.

"So the guy I'm setting you up with is three years sober and he doesn't want to meet at a bar, so I figured you could just call him and plan it yourself, because I don't really give a shit."

"Alright fine, just give me his number then."

"I gave yours to him already, expect him to call."

"Is he pretty?" Gerard asks.

"I... you're a weirdo. I guess so?" Frank says.

"Good," Gerard replies, "I deserve pretty."

"You're so narcissistic."

"Go away. Just let me try to find someone quickly, okay? I don't know how many of my friends I'm willing to lose because of how bad a date you are. Like seriously, I'd hate me too if I was forced to go on a date with someone as ugly, self-involved, untalented, idiotic, and immature as you."

Frank makes a noise on the other end of the phone then says, "You probably researched for several hours just to figure out what those words even mean."

"Fuckhead."

"Back at ya," Frank spits.

"Just, hang up so I can get back to slamming my head against a wall, which, by the way, is a whole lot less painful than having to listen to your whiney little voice."

"You're probably not smart enough to figure out that hitting your head against the wall isn't how you complete routine tasks," Frank responds.

"Someday you're going to be walking down the street and be pushed in front of a bus, Frank, and I, I am just going to laugh and spit on your little pancake self."