"Hey, I sure appreciate y'all letting me come over and watch with you," my new coworker Tobin said, sitting down on the couch to my left.
"No problem," I told him, passing the pretzels. "We love the Academy Awards in this house. Angie always likes the dresses, I like the pomp and reverence, the kids like the film clips, we all pretty much cry during the In Memorium. And nobody else in the neighborhood even cares about them."
"That's right," my wife said from my right. "There's always a barbecue on the street for the Super Bowl, for the Playoffs, every time Trump tweets something awful, the World Series. But not the Oscars."
"It's a special night for me too, every single year," Tobin said, gripping the bowl like it was something dear to him. "So, thanks for making me feel at home."
On the television, Jimmy Kimmel was just starting his monologue when Tobin muttered something under his breath.
"What was that?" I asked, sure I had heard him wrong.
"If Get Out don't win Best Picture, I'm gonna murder the whole lot of you," he repeated.
Oh. That's what I thought he had said.
He passed the pretzels on to my wife.
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