TSSexgod: I want a
TSSexgod: I saaaid, I want a cheeseburger.
Condiment1: So go get one, Tony. I’ve got budgeting to do right now.
TSSexgod: And I’m downstairs in the bottom half a mech suit trying to find a nonfunctioning conductor and anyway I am your BOSS and I think I have the right to ask my employ-EE to pick me up a cheeseburger.
TSSexgod: And fries.
Condiment1: Right now? Can’t it wait until you’re out of your Wallace and Grommit pants? I’m serious, I’ve got four pages of bills to rectify here. What in God’s name where you doing buying steel ingots off the Internet?
TSSexgod: It’s cheaper than running down to Ore R Us, and they deliver. So, about my cheeseburger. Get it, pretty please?
Condiment1: You know, I would PAY to see you march through the Burger King drive through in your Ironpants.
TSSexgod: . . .
TSSexgod: You know, after all this time I still have no idea how your mind works, Pepper, and that’s scary. Intriguing, but scary.
Condiment1: As long as you fear me to some degree, I’m good with it.
TSSexgod: Don’t get cocky there, Potts.
Condiment1: What’s this bill for Jezebel’s?
TSSexgod: Goodwill gift for the president’s wife, look, am I getting a cheeseburger or not?
Condiment1: You bought the First Lady a garter belt? A garter belt Tony? No wonder you were getting those glares at the last State dinner! Time for damage control; I’ll get the roses but YOU have to sign the card.
TSSexGod: You will note that she didn’t send it back, which I count in our favor, politically. Besides, what else was I going to send her? A case of Stinger missiles? A tracking radar? Please! As the foremost female representative of this great country of ours, I felt it was appropriate to emphasize my appreciation of her gentler, more feminine qualities.
Condiment1: Oh be still my beating heart. Card. Signed before morning.
TSSexgod: Cheeseburger with fries. Sometime this year.
Condiment1: In exchange for the card?
TSSexgod: That’s blackmail.
Condiment1: Call it what you will. A simple signature for a hot, delicious meaty burger with melted cheese . . .
Condiment1: . . . along with crisp, salty fries---
TSSexgod: Now I’m getting wood over food. And there is no room for personal expansion in this suit. Stop. Seriously.
Condiment1: Alllll washed down with an icy cold Coke.
TSSexgod: In pain. Hate you right now. Nothing personal of course, but I’m wedged.
Condiment1: So you’ll just have get sex off your mind. Oh, wait, what was I thinking? Any man with the username of TSSexgod probably has more libido than normal.
TSSexgod: Now I want a cheeseburger AND sex. Thanks a lot. Don’t think I’ll forget this at Christmas bonus time, Potts. I could arrange for a shipment of coal your way, no problem.
Condiment1: So think of unsexy things, Tony. I have a First Lady to pacify.
TSSexgod: Ohhhh I could think of much better partners for you than she of the Egg Rolling tradition.
Condiment1: Been there, done that. Fifteen miles of insulated wiring? Tony, that’s three times more than AT&T has for this entire compound!
TSSexgod: Wait, wait, back up. Did I read that right? You’ve had partners of the female persuasion? OhhhhGod. Seriously in pain now. I need to redesign this codpiece.
Condiment1: Ancient history, not relevant to how I’m going to pay for twenty six thousand yards of wiring.
TSSexgod: Twenty six thousand four hundred yards to be exact, and you’re changing the subject.
Condiment1: I thought the subject was cheeseburgers.
TSSexgod: Lesbianism trumps food; first law of boners. Details. I want details.
Condiment1: Nothing to tell.
TSSexgod: Don’t you know that it’s morally wrong to lie? Especially to an employer?
Condiment1: Sure. And you’ll blame me when I need to get you out of that suit with the Jaws of Life.
TSSexgod: There is that, yes. But given that I’m now painfully tumescent, and starving to death as well, I can’t help but feel that you owe me some sort of compensation for my dilemma, Potts.
Condiment1: Dream on.
TSSexgod: Oh cruelty, thy name is Pepper Potts. You know, that sounds like something out of Shakespeare. And let’s face it, I’m going to win. I’ll simply hound you day and night unceasingly until I get all the sordid facts.
Condiment1: Generally that is your modus operandi, yes, I know. But trust me, you really don’t want the lowdown on Ginger Seaton and me. It’s not what you think it is.
TSSexgod: Ginger, yes. Very porny, actually. Computer, note to self, refit for codpiece now a top priority. Sorry, don’t let me interrupt—go on.
Condiment1: oh fine. You want the details, fine. We got naked in my back yard one sunny afternoon.
Condiment1: And after a lot of giggling and hugging and some kissing—
TSSexgod: Deep pain---shitshitshit
Condiment1: My mother caught us, put our diapers back on and made us come back to the playpen to take our naps.
TSSexgod: I hate you.
Condiment1: You still want that cheeseburger?
TSSexgod: Uh, yeah. That would be good, sure. Would you mind bringing me a couple of wet wipes too, while you’re at it?
Condiment1: You better be kidding.
TSSexgod: Sorry, you pretty much had me critical at ‘naked’ and ‘back yard.’ I have a very um, fertile imagination.
Condiment1: So everything’s . . . okay?
TSSexgod: Oh sure, sure. I’ll have to hose out the inside of this suit and take a shower, but other than that—
Condiment1: I’m sorry.
TSSexgod: No, that’s all right. Although there is one favor you could do me, if you’re feeling any sense of remorse for making me contaminate a multi-million dollar project.
Condiment1: I hesitate to ask.
TSSexgod: TWO cheeseburgers. And a shake. And fries.