``Blast!'' or maybe ``Drat!''

The sort of words a person spits when confronted with a certain set of situations.

``Drat!'' he spat as he looked at himself in the mirror above the sink.

Nothing was especially wrong. He was just practicing not saying ``Shit!'' when those certain situations arise.

George Philheart thought he was using too much obscenity. Big boys can say shit and fuck as often and as loud as they want, but adults, true adults, saved it for those shit moments like crushing your thumb with a ball-peen hammer. Not when you miss the elevator or lose a point in racquetball. He needed shit control. He needed to get off auto-shit mode.

And besides, Ms. Sherwood, his new uberboss, would hardly approve. Mrs. Sherwood probably. The Latter-Day Saint. Mrs. Sherwood who had a sense of humor and was fairly cute for an uberboss. For a Latter-Day Saint.

George had always operated under the assumption that Latter-Day Saints had to be froudy or dowdy or dreary or dismal. Overly clean in thought, word and deed. Respectable little wisps of white bread who didn't dance. Ms. Sherwood did not fit the mold. Actually Ms. Sherwood's mold was fairly fit . . . for a Mormon.

``No. No. No. Stop talking to yourself and get ready for work.'' George stared at his face in the mirror. ``If I look real closely into that especially big pore I can see all the way through my cheek to the unclean bicuspid underneath.''

He grabbed the splay-bristled toothbrush savagly.

``Shit. There's no toothpaste.'' Marcia had taken it back to her place after their fight last night. The toothpaste was symbolic of their almost living together. George could not put up with Marcia's three cats. Three fat little surrogate boyfriends. She didn't need surrogate boyfriends now, she needed him. At least so George thought. Marcia had a roommate, and his place didn't allow animals. He didn't allow animals. At least not cats. At least not those cats. George was not going to live in a place where three out of the five living beings didn't like him.

He could tell that Marcia worried about their relationship because Balzac and Frug and Blue Cat did not like him. They probably didn't like the idea of that humping hairy ape lying on top of their mistress. And underneath. And behind. And in front of. . . Marcia the genius of erogenna if that was a word.

``Gotta call Marcia. She can bring her fucking cats. Just as long as I don't have to feed them and clean up their shit.''

The naked toothbrush still tasted of toothpaste mint. Actually it felt kind of clean and nice. Not all that thick paste in his mouth. Just think about it: inert white paste, extruded from a tube. Was this a metaphor for orgasm or defecation? Maybe some things weren't metaphors. Lately he'd been thinking that everything was a metaphor for something else. Maybe nothing's a metaphor for anything. Maybe the whole search for metaphor was the ugly basis for inventing religion. Maybe it was the beautiful basis for inventing religion. Maybe Ms. Sherwood would know. Maybe he was prejudiced against the fucking Mormons. Maybe there were OK Mormons and idiot Mormons, just like every other group except Nazis. There were no good Nazis. Right? But he was really surprised that the first Mormon that he'd really met was a fairly nice person. It's amazing how much prejudice there is. Even dumb little prejudices.

``Let's be open-minded about Ms. Sherwood,'' he thought as he spat into the fucking sink.