Mr Gander

Mr Gander rolled into the noisy sports bar, grunting and waving at others while signalling for a PBR. As Gander’s ample weight found a stool, Tilly observed that Gander seemed down.

“The wife.” Gander pointed his eyes at the TV and sampled his beer’s head.

“What ’bout ‘er?”

“Nothin’. I have little complaints ’bout ‘er. They’re so small, you could say they’re shards of complaints.”

“You ever tell ‘er ’bout ’em? Maybe that’d help.”

“Naw, man. If I tell ‘er my complaints ’bout ‘er, she’ll tell me her complaints ’bout me.” Gander sipped his beer. “Who wants to hear that crap?”

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