At the bus stop. Youngish guy rocks up carrying an open bottle of some fizzy thing (asti spumante, or something, with the foil peeled back at the top) in a paper bag, and a slab of stubbies.
GUY: (sings) Wha-aaa-t are YOU dooo-ing the re-EST of to-o-o-DAY?
ME: Going home and working. How about you?
GUY: (still singing) Con-TIN-yooooouuuu-ing to drink, then going to see my friends, and dri-i-i-ink....ING. (looks at me quite closely) I know!!! I don’t look the type, do I?!??!
ME: On the contrary, friend. The only empirical evidence I currently have is that you are, in fact, The Type.
GUY: I mean, ok, I haven’t achieved everything my friends have. One of them, he flies jumbo jets!! I don’t even have my driver’s licence.
ME: Not ambitious in that direction?
GUY: Nooooo, man! I hate cars. Hate ‘em. Never been interested. (nanosecond pause) I could buy a house in Brazil.
ME: Well, Brazil. Naturally.
GUY: This bloke I know has one there, right, and it has, like, everything. A kitchen, a whole school!! A four-car garage.
ME: What do you want with a four-car garage? You can’t drive.
GUY: *blinky blink*
ME: *eyebrows*
GUY: Yeah, got my L plates, though, ay.
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