Jesus, sitting in for Boli, portholes Lowther's piece

[...and the crazy happenings on the Floor cranked the planet's rotation a tiny degree to the-

Yeah, um, no. Dealing with this crew, as I have for the last, what's it been, sweetums? ten years? you need to ride a horse named Well-maybe, and that's short for Well-maybe-they'll-show-up-tomorrow-and-if-not-then-its-no-skin-off-my-back-cause-I-got-better-shit- to-do-with-my-time-then-sit-around-waiting-for-these-bastards-to-chime-in, which. hey, I've got to admit, is a very long name for a race horse. Hah. Though, tell the truth, if a horse by that name wandered up to the gate when I was attending the races? I'd bet on him]

So, this one Canadian piece.

[Jesus stands up and walks a few walks from the cherrywood]

It's typed up good and all, but...

[He slaps his fingers over his lips]

I'm letting my Chicago show, aren't I. Shoot.

[The droid, once again, rumbles and vibrates itself across the the desktop of the cherrywood. Christ lets it ride]

The Canadian piece, Mario Lowther's Burrard View Park, lacks any sort of spark. It's Christmas Carol without Christmas.<

[Jesus watches the droid skip across the desktop]

Like I said, the piece was typed up well, and the idea wasn't the worst, but there's nothing there, Mario. Nothing. It ends flat. Like a hopeful at the London Olympics flying off the tip off her mark and landing on her face instead of on her feet. Read Thom Jones. Read other shorts. But, as Doomey would say, don't waste our time. Of course, when Doomey tells that to VCs they usually type back with some silly recompense that means nothing and wastes even more time, but...anywho. Mario, I am going to shove your cap out the Porthole.

[He walks over to the Porthole, and he squeeks it open, the deluge raging outside]

Please don't type back at me telling me what a bad person I am because I am merely a standin, okay? The fellow that should be here is not here because of some, some weird happening, an event, okay?

[Jesus tosses the cap out the window]

Don't push my buttons, Mario.

[He climbs over some debre and reseats himself behind the cherrywood. He watches as the phone slowly comes to a standstill, vibrations and rumblings and hummings finished...for the moment. Jesus frowns]