He stretches his arm along the back of the couch, running a thumbnail along the seam. He needs to stop that. He's worn a groove in the leather. Wouldn't do to look shabby if he had a guest.
He doesn't actually watch the Comedy Channel. A&E and Discover are part of the basic lineup, and he's aware of the irony of his watching mostly the History channel but he doesn't do irony. There's nothing old fashioned about a good punchline, a little slapstick. He sees the new breed of standup and shudders. Not a one of them can spell scatological but they can spew it. Thank Jim for TiVo and Jack Benny, whose familiar face ghosts onto the projection tv. It's bigger than Scooter's, or at least bigger than the one Scooter had six years ago, the last time they got together, for something, some award, some retrospective, some occasion to stand around and talk about what they did, what they were doing. Fozzie left early.
Kermit doesn't have a television. Piggy does. Kermit's apartment is near empty, less zen minimalist than unused, but they keep the fiction. He would say it's for the kids, but the kids are watching Hannah Montana.
He doesn't see much of them. She rides him about the grey in his muzzle until he starts eyeing her roots and Kermit calls the waiter. They hug stiffly, Piggy performs her signature air kisses, and they go their separate ways, them to her all-white condo, him to his couch. Just as well, really. He's too old to be the third wheel on their bicycle built for two.
He's got a Mazda in the garage with vanity plates that read "Wokka X 2". With gas prices what they are, he doesn't drive it much. Peapod delivers.
He leans back against the leather of the couch, a beer in his hand, a sportscar in the garage, residuals trickling into his bank account faster than he spends them. He tells himself he's got everything he ever wanted.
He waits for the rim shot.