Ftrain, by Paul Ford

“Hey, Paul,” I said, a moment later. The T.V. cut from the news about duct tape and imminent death, to show glistening shots of rotating chicken with a side of creamed spinach.

“What?”

“You see that ad for Boston Market?”

“Yeah,” Paul said.

“How come they never use their initials in their marketing?”

“B.M.? Oh.”

“Why don’t they say--” I switched to an announcer voice. “'Running late? How about the great taste of hot, steaming B.M.?'”

Paul thought for a moment. “Nothing’s as satisfying as fresh B.M.”

“And where,” I said, “is the overstuffed roasted chicken sandwich called ‘The Big B.M.?'”

“Dinner takes hours. But it only takes a moment to make B.M.”

“And I picture this old guy--”

“Scott,” said Paul.

“Yes?”

“We’re going to die from poison gas sprayed under the door by trained monkeys wearing fezzes.”

“Shriners? In the Axis of Evil?”

“Squirrels named Nuthammad are going to throw smallpox-covered nuts into our water supply. We should be serious.”

“If we’re going to be serious we need beer,” I said.