Discourse

Vito stood before his audience, mid-way through a lecture on the current state of media, when he saw a man stand.

“You fuckin’ lib-tards and your bullshit support of the Sunderman dictatorship!”

Another man stood, on the other side of the room. “Hey! Get your backwards-ass ignorant fuckwad self outta here you neo-Con redneck!”

“You think you’re so brave, get the fuck over here and I’ll show you bravery, like I showed it to your mother last night!”

“What the fuck is wrong with you, Dave?” the man shouted back. “You know my mother died last year!”

“Yeah, because I pounded her too hard, unh unh! Yeah, fuck you and your mother, and I’ll come take your wife too, Rory!”

“Gentlemen,” Vito said, “if we should return to the matter at hand…”

“Shut your face, OP! I’m a third degree black belt and have studied media more in-depth for the past 20 years than you could ever dream! And Rory, I know where you live, so I’m gonna find you and I’m gonna fuck up your life so bad, your salt ass will be sore until the second coming!”

“Dave, what the fuck is wrong with you? Typical ignorant bullshit, you can’t have a decent discussion without threatening violence or throwing shit everywhere? Quit being a fuck-tard, you dumb-ass!”

Vito grabbed the microphone. “LADIES, GENTLEMEN, AND MAN-CHILDREN. SIT DOWN. NOW.” The two men just looked at him. “SIT. DOWN.”

“But – ”

“I just – ”

“SIT DOWN.” The two sat. “I WAS GOING TO CONTINUE MY DISCUSSION. BUT APPARENTLY, THE ENTIRE THRUST IS LOST ON YOU. THIS TALK IS DONE. THERE WILL BE NO REFUNDS. I WISH I COULD SAY GOODNIGHT, BUT IT WASN’T. SO LONG. I WON’T BE RETURNING HERE.” Vito turned and left the stage, while the audience started grumbling.

“GOOD FUCK JOB, DAVE!” Rory yelled, and the place erupted.

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Refined Discourse

“I just think that the overall oeuvre of Vermeer is one that screams jejeune travesty,” Curtis said. “It’s not like his childhood was particularly sparkling – I mean, comparatively speaking.”

“Compared to what?” Amy asked.

“Today’s standards, of course.”

“Well, you could say the same about anyone in history, really. They all had ‘comparatively unsparkling childhoods’, right?”

“Yes, but Vermeer had something of an angst-driven, existential depth in the brush strokes he used, and while his contemporaries were pedantic in their subject matter, he had an eye for the sensual, almost robust colourings that were available to him.”

“Robust colourings?” Amy said, an eyebrow cocked.

“Yes. Have you not heard that term? Maybe it’s a bit too academic for you.” Curtis looked smug as he turned away from her.

“What the hell does that mean?” Amy said, folding her arms in front of her.

“I mean, I know you did a community college degree, so you may not have learned the finer intricacies of art forms and the more civilized means of discussing them. It’s nothing to be ashamed of, it’s just a different language. More refined.”

“Mmhm. And yet, you’re frothing lattes just like me. Good thing you paid extra for that ‘refined’ experience.” Amy turned away as a customer approached, leaving Curtis to sputter in futility behind her.