"Shitty!"

JC winces away from the phone. Chris's voice is major loud and way
too cheery. "Christopher."

"No, the name is Shitty! Or Fucker, if we're really close friends."

"Fuck you."

"Like that'd help. So, how many of your dear female friends
actually enjoy being called 'Shitty'? Other than Shitney, of
course? I hear you're touring with her now. Makes sense to me.
Justin does X-tina, you do Shitney and Debbie does Dallas."

JC sighs. "Chris..."

"No, no, and fuck no. You haven't earned the right to speak to me
like that. Who the fuck do you think you are, my mother? And, do,
please, call my mom 'Shitty'. I want to see her punch your lights
out."

"I would never call Bev that!" JC says, shocked.

"So, what, you're fucking telling me that not only are you
disrespecting me by not calling me 'Fucker', but you're fucking
disrespecting my mom, too? That's fucked."

"I was trying to be hip!" JC protests.

"Hip!" Chris laughs hysterically. "*Hip*. The man is trying to be
*hip*. That's so groovy, cat. No one'll say you're a square, fer
shure."

"Asshole," JC mutters.

"No, no, I insist. Fucker. If you're going to start using these
little nicknames for everybody, I want to be Fucker."

"Chris, you already know I don't."

"But why not? All the cool cats are doing it."

"You're interfering with my creative process here."

"You're already done writing the fucking album. People -- and I'm
not saying I know of any, but friends of friends -- have actually
claimed to have bought copies. Now this is probably just another
urban legend, but if it's true, it's a little late to still be
fucking working on it."

"I could be working on the next album," JC says, trying to pull the
remnants of his tattered dignity around him.

"You could be, but you aren't. Now, c'mon. What's it going to be?"

JC sighs. "Fucker."

"Love you, too, Shitty," Chris says cheerfully before he hangs up.
"See you next week."