‘Donny,’ said Deirdre sternly. ‘Where have you been? The show is about to start and you need to get ready.’
‘But ready is such a relative term,’ said Donny to the surprise of everyone present. ‘I think that I must simply ask you to elaborate further before I can even begin to postulate a response here.’
‘Donny,’ gasped Daphne. ‘What were you doing in the toilet? Why are you talking in this scary, thinkful way?’ Daphne was as frightened of complex words as the next pop star.
‘Well, I think it is only right for me, at this juncture in the unfolding of time and space, to give you my most absolute and blessed assurance that my recent visit to the restroom is not a topic that I have any intention of discussing in public, now or at any other time,’ said Donny very gravely. ‘And in any case,’ he continued, ‘with reference to your previous question, I have always chosen to conduct my linguistic life in this lyrical manner.’
This is absolutely not true. Donny had never spoken like this in his entire life. He never really had anything to say and even if he did happen to have something to say, which, as I am suggesting, is rarely ever, he would never say it like this. I should know.
Like other people who aren’t much for talking, Donny’s world was one of grunts and nods and sighs, with the occasional sentence emerging from this glottal gloom.