ALDO BOLD AS LOVE
"Is that a Piece of shit, or what?” asked Aldo Nova, perched on a grimy white counter between me and my tape. "Is that a piece of shit?! Je-sus!” I agreed. I was on the grimy counter, too, for what it's worth. By the way, the tape was mine, but the tape recorder was Aldo Nova’s brand-new machine.
ALDO BOLD AS LOVE
J. Kordosh
"Is that a Piece of shit, or what?” asked Aldo Nova, perched on a grimy white counter between me and my tape.
"Is that a piece of shit?! Je-sus!” I agreed. I was on the grimy counter, too, for what it's worth. By the way, the tape was mine, but the tape recorder was Aldo Nova’s brand-new machine. I’ve got a crummy Panasonic, he’s got a brand-new Walkman-type. This disparity is due to trickledown, Biz-wise.
“Hello,” said Aldo in his boyish speaking voice. “My bio’s a piece of shit.” (We were checking our sound level, you see.)
“It should be on tape,” I said. “Really. The bio sucks.”
“The bio sucks,” said Aldo Nova. “It says that Aldo Nova’s a collection of ten love songs.”
“Yeah! I was gonna use that!” (Actually, only eight of the ten could be interpreted as boy/girl tragedies, but who’s counting?)
“The gladiator of asshollles...F’ Aldo yelled with glee.