This from Da-da's friend Peter's recent visit to check in on his wife's mother (you get all that?), whom Da-da will call, "Iris," despite the fact that Peter's name really is Peter; he doesn't care, as his ninja skills are fresh and springy at 66. Jeez, get to the point, willya?
So, backdrop: Iris is 92, five foot nothin', retired nurse, smokes two packs of camels a day, and goes through two liters of scotch a week. Suffice to say that Iris has what Nick the Bartender would call, "a whisky voice." Iris lives alone most of the time and wouldn't have it any other way. She's also a crack shot, and can skin anything in seconds, living or dead. Don't turn your back on Iris.
Peter was over at Iris' the other day on one of his regular visits, dropping off more booze and cigarettes. (Hey, she's 92 and pissed off, so she can smoke and drink whatever she wants.) Iris lets Peter in and gives him THE EYE (she's aptly named), then points at the new radio Peter got her last week.
Peter: Yes, Iris? Something wrong?
Iris: [points to radio] I don't like this. I want a new one.
[Peter turns it on to see if it works: it does.]
Peter: Why? This one's brand new.
Iris: I want one that gets better stations.
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