Trapped!

“I’m here to save you from The Wicked Money of Your Bank Account.”

I need a hero. And no, I’m not asking for a submarine sandwich (Although, now that you mention it, if it’s not too much trouble, I would absolutely love a footlong buffalo chicken hoagie with all the trimmings, again, if it’s not too much trouble). Nay, I need a person of distinguished courage or ability to rescue me from a dire situation involving an auto mechanic’s shop, a very small waiting room, and a very chatty receptionist. Judging by the position of the sun, which I cannot see, and the position of the little hand of the enormous clock on the wall in front of me, which I can see quite easily, the receptionist has been talking non-stop for the past 45 minutes. And since I’m waiting for my car, and there’s a blizzard outside (we have one every day), I’m effectively this receptionist’s hostage. Oh, I’ve tried participating in the conversation. I’ve managed a few “Oh, really’s?” and some “That’s funny’s,” but that was only while she was inhaling, which seemed to occur a total of four times. I’ve even tried staring intently at the book I brought along, which I (foolishly) placed on a side table when I sat down. Of course, reaching for it now would be the equivalent of reaching for a gun while the evil villain monologues about the time he got drunk with his girlfriends at the beach. Like I said, I need a hero. Someone who will swoop in and save me from- Wait. Can it be??? My hero! My hero has arrived at long last! What’s that? You have an estimate for the repairs? Oh. Well, now I hate you.