Week 7 - Vonnegut's "2BR02B" and Hanes' "Ten with a Flag"

"Well," he said, looking down at me from over the edge of his bifocals, "there's no genetic contra indi­cators, no signs of pre-toxemia, no anemia, nothing that would give me even a moment's hesitation about your health or that ofyour child."

It was best to remain compliant until he finished.

Johnnie didn't like being out of control, it was one of the things I'd found endearing 23 in him; quaint even.

"I work harder than-" "Says here," Mr. White interjected, "that your boss seems to think that al­ though you spend fifty hours a week on the job, your production levels only account for thirty hours worth ofwork. He recommended you be downgraded to a five so that you can actually accomplish forty hours worth of work in sixty hours time."

"You have eighteen voice messages, sir, all offering congratulations on your promotion and the impending boon to the Nation that your son's birth will deliver. Would you like to hear them?"

Johnnie didn't like being out of control, it was one of the things I'd found endearing 23 in him; quaint even.

"Yes—here you are. You're entitled to be immortalized. See any faceless body here you'd like me to stick your head on? We've got a few choice ones left."

"I think it's perfectly keen," said Wehling tautly.

A sardonic old man, about two hundred years old, sat on a stepladder, painting a mural he did not like.

The painter expressed with an obscenity his lack of concern for the tribulations of his survivors.

His camouflage was perfect, since the waiting room had a disorderly and demoralized air, too.

His camouflage was perfect, since the waiting room had a disorderly and demoralized air, too.

She was demure about what she did.

The population of the United States was stabilized at forty-million souls.

It was the portrait of a tanned, white-haired, omnipotent Zeus, two hundred and forty years old.

"Nope," said Wehling sulkily.

She was exclaiming over the legal implications of triplets.

She studied the mural bleakly.

He smiled luminously.

All the answers that the painter could think of were grim.

A coarse, formidable woman strode into the waiting room on spike heels.