“Roooger Ramjet, he’s our man! Heeeee-ro of our nation!” sang Greg. “For his adventures just be sure to stay tuned to this sta-tion!”
“What the hell is wrong with you?” Brigid said. “Why, of all the things you could be singing, did you pick the theme song to a forty-year-old cartoon that frankly wasn’t anything to write home about when it was new? What goes on in that brain of yours?”
Greg, frozen in place like somebody caught with his hand in the cookie jar, silently looked around, moving only his eyes back and forth in an exaggerated mode of alarm for several seconds. Finally, he sang, “Toooooom Slick! Toooooom Slick! Let! Me! Tell you why! He’s the best of all the guys!”
“Oh for Pete’s sake,” said Brigid, heading for the door. “I’m getting out of here.”
“There’s no such word as ‘I’m getting out of here’ in automobile racing, Marigold!” Greg called after her.
“Shut up!” she replied, slamming the door behind her.