Read Online Reality TV Bites by Shane Bolks - Free Book Online

shakes his head and drinks the Heineken anyway. “I still can’t believe you named your cat…what you did.”
    â€œWhy? I’d end up calling her that anyway. Besides, she looks like a Booboo Kitty.”
    â€œShe looks like a mutant feather pillow,” he says not quite softly enough.
    â€œGood thing she’ll never have to see you again. I wish I was so lucky,” I mutter.
    I head over to Rory and Hunter. I have to skirt around thirty or so slack-jawed guys, awed by the Laker Girls’ halftime show. Sometimes I miss learning those routines with the other girls. It can be such a rush when you get it right.
    â€œRory, it’s nine-fifteen. Are you ready?”
    â€œAw, you have to go already? It’s only halftime,” Hunter says.
    â€œ The Iron Chef won’t wait,” Rory says and stands. “Besides, now you can watch the Laker Girls instead of pretending to listen to the genealogical breakdown of Luke Skywalker’s family tree.”
    Hunter puts a hand on his chest as if wounded. “But I am interested in Luke Skywalker’s family tree. All those crazy Skywalkers.”
    â€œBye, Hunter,” I say and pull on Rory’s arm until she detaches her lips from his.
    â€œDid you drive?” I ask as we leave the bar and breathe sports-free air for the first time in several hours.
    â€œNo, Hunter did.”
    â€œOkay, we’ll take my car.”
    Rory skids to a stop. “Allison, if we take your car you have to promise not to drive like you’re trying to beat the Millennium Falcon at the Kessel Run.”
    â€œOh-kaay.” We round the corner, and I deactivate the alarm on my BMW Z4 parked on the street. Of course Hunter and Dave would choose a place without valet.
    â€œAllison, that means don’t speed.”
    â€œRory, I never speed.” I climb into the car, and Rory reluctantly follows. “It just feels faster when I have the top down. You know, physics and all that.” I start the engine, press the button to lower the top, and we’re off.
    â€œAllison!” Rory screams over the wind and my Benny Goodman CD. “I took physics, and I’m not buying it. Creator! Watch out for the pedestrians!”
    Ten minutes later, pretty good time to get all the way to Old Town where Rory lives, I say, “Rory, we’re here. You can open your eyes.”
    â€œI am never driving with you again.”
    â€œYou always say that.” I pull into the empty parking spot next to her car, and follow her into the apartment building singing “Flat Foot Floogee.” By the time we get to her apartment, Rory’s singing, too. She never stays angry for long.
    We burst into her apartment, and I flop on the couch while Rory heads for the kitchen. She reemerges with a bottle of wine and a pint of Double Fudge Brownie. Now we’re talking. Why would anyone want to sit at hard wooden picnic tables, drink warm beer, and watch sweaty grown men run around chasing a ball? This is much better.
    Rory hands me a spoon and flips the TV on, surfing until she finds the right channel. The Iron Chef starts in five minutes, so our timing is perfect.
    Rory’s still humming the song, then she says, “What’s a floogee? For that matter, what’s a floy, floy or a flou, flou?”
    â€œWhat’s wrong? You don’t collar this jive?” I say, digging into the pint. “That’s just frisking the whiskers.”
    Rory stares at me. “Where did you learn to talk like that?”
    â€œGrandma Holloway. She’d put on her best drape, truck on down to the gin mills in the Land o’ Darkness, and alligator with the hepcats at the Cotton Club. You’ve heard of Cab Calloway, right? She collared him, Duke Ellington, Cole Porter—all the gates and their killer-dillers.”
    â€œIt’s almost like speaking Klingon.”
    â€œIf you say so. Shh. The show’s starting.”
    We watch The