Joe's phone rings.
"Is Joe there?" a nauseatingly friendly but totally unfamiliar voice inquires.
"This is Joe."
"Jooooe! Duuuude! Howya dooooin?" Joe is not doing so well. Joe has a 12-page paper due in 12 hours. Interruptions disturb Joe's meticulously scheduled page-per-hour ratio.
"Who is this?"
"Jooooe! My maaaaan! Joeeeey! Howya beeeen?" Joe has been better. Joe's roommate just declared his common room the official headquarters of the Killing People Revolutionary Front. Joe's significant other just told him she'd rather be a plain old other. The cheesy garden casserole Joe scarfed down at lunch just returned to say hellow.
"Who is this?"
"Joe, I'm hurt. You don't know who this is?" Joe does not know who this is. Unless this is the Widener bureaucrat Joe called for an explanation of the mysterious $193.67 library fine on his term bill, Joe does not want to know who this is.
"Uh, no. Not really,"
"Duuuude! it's BRUNO!" This information seems to excite Bruno, but it gets Joe no closer to completing his cutting-edge exegesis on 14th-century Ukrainian dental hygiene.
"Is this some kind of a prank? Bruno who?"
"Come on, Joe baby! it's your good ol' buddy Bruno Bostrello!" Joe has not seen this good ol' buddy since Bruno was left back in third grade. This good ol' buddy used of stuff Play-Doh down Joe's throat in kindergarten. Joe never really considered this good ol' buddy a good ol' buddy.
"What do you want?"
"Jooooe! Duuuude! This weekend's the Head! You got room for me, right?"
Joe has no room for Bruno. That doesn't matter. Bruno will end up crashing in Joe's common room, much to the chagrin of Joe, his roommate and the 67 other good ol' buddies sprawled on the Revolutionary Front floor.
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