Today, her name is Bertha. Bertha. Obviously, she must be old. At least old enough to where the day she was born her parents thought, "Bertha, what a beautiful name for a slightly overweight and squinty eyed baby; yes, yes that name is perfect: I think we'll go with Bertha." Because you know that there is absolutely no way in hell that there is a reasonable person out there today who would chose "Bertha" as a name for their child - unless, I concede, it was a family name, OR you were in the South... or the backwoods of Georgia. But those places don't count; unless you want to film them or put them on display in some sort of carni-photography exhibit, which mind you I think has always been a fantastic idea - but I hear that they don't take too kindly to those types of thinkin'.

Bertha just called. I don't know the name of the partner-ass that I'm supposed to be kissing yet, so I'm sure I fucked up his name when I answered the phone. "Mr. BuOngin-y's office." I think this caused Bertha to become upset, and I can only assume that she rolled her eyes, or busted a seem in her polyurethane pants or something of the sort, the fat around her midsection contracting and expanding under the stress of it all. She said in a slightly harried tone "Just tell him, I'll be there by 1pm." I don't know why she's so stressed out. I haven't done anything all morning... AND I showed up 45 minutes late.
I think someone noticed, but I don't know who.