My uncle Tom is a weird guy.
He has a a crazy beard and funny glasses. You might say he is ‘unique, an individual’.
I say he is weird.
He lives in a box beside the highway, the kind a refrigerator comes in (the box, not the highway).
I don’t quite know how he came to be the sort of person who lives in a box beside the highway, but I suspect it had something to do with his mother.
At any rate, he called me the other day, from a payphone at the ‘Seven to Eleven’ store, which ironically is only open until 10pm most nights, it is only on the weekend it is actually open until 11pm. He called me to say ‘I aaaaaagh, I aaaaaaaagh, I need you to help me, the government is after me, they are monitoring me, all my communications, facebook, everything! It’s not safe anywhere, you must help me!’
Now, I was quite surprised to hear that Uncle Tom even knew about facebook, I wasn’t aware you got good internet beside the highway, but obviously he knew what was going on.
And that’s when the line went dead. There was just this funny clicking noise.