“Seriously? Damn it!” He glared at the detached piece of plastic in his hand. “I fucking swear to God, plastic is killing us in so many ways, we don’t even realize.”
“Please. Don’t start.” Patty’s interjection disappeared in the sea of Bingo’s anger.
To fully understand a man called Bingo, one question must come to mind: What grown-ass man responds to that name with any sort of pride? The automatic assumption of a legendary immaturity is implied, as well as the possibility that his eyes are permanently crossed.
Bingo rummaged through the kitchen, opening and shutting drawers and cabinets. With each act of shutting, getting louder, becoming a slam. “If I were super glue®, where would I be?” In that moment, he actually channelled the mindset of super glue®.
Patty rolled her eyes, and spoke knowing full well that she would be ignored. “At the Home Depot® where you talk about it, but never actually get it.”
As predicted, he was unaffected by her words. Upon yanking a cabinet open, the hinge broke, so he further acknowledged its existence, “God damn fucking cheap ass cabinet shit. Who the fuck?”
And like a cartoon assistant, zip sound effects and all, Patty handed Bingo wood glue, screws, a screwdriver and a putty knife.