Since I haven't done it for awhile, today's lunch writing gem.
The Old Man launched into another tirade which consisted of asking me if I understood the difference between dissimilar things and could find parts of my own anatomy unassisted. I fully expected the paint on the walls to have curled from the invectives. Mr. Hernandez could be creative in his own way. After only ten minutes that felt like a hundred years, he ran out of steam. I could thank Santana for wearing him down first. He sloughed into the couch, his hands half pulling his hair out, half keeping his head from exploding. "Get out of my sight," he said.