The fourth floor common room had been transformed. Do not ask how the
best talk show hosts ever had found a disco ball to hang from the ceiling, one that showed off their
matching white double-breasted pantsuits. They were here to sing about politics and chew bubble gum, and they were all out of gumThere were chairs arranged in a semi-circle, for
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He'd just be back there... filming. And laughing.
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Apparently George and Robin did have something in common.
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He was not, however, going to give up yet.
"Big fan," he said with a nod and a slightly smug smile on his face.
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Now he was really starting to get agitated. "I'm Barry effin' Gibb!! I grew up in Queensland, Australia! I once beat a crackhead to death with a live wombat!!! I had a pet crocodile that I fed by HAND! I'm BARRY EFFIN' GIBB!!!"
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He didn't bother specifying which part he didn't remember. That would require too many words.
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Yes, 'effin' was swearing to Freddie.
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"Aw, yeah, that's what I said!! You don't mess with Barry effin' Gibb!!!"
He did a couple of roundhouse kicks that segued into a full-out disco dance. "I beat the bootlegger!" he sang. "Beat the bootlegger! Boot-leg-ger-beatin'! Boot-leg-ger-beatin'! Yeah, yeah!"
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It was never the wrong time for a victory dance. Ever.
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This was comedy gold.
Well, maybe if he did some creative audio splicing...
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He nodded sagely.
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She had a purse. She was opening her purse and pulling out money. Look, Freddie! Money!
... she was a princess. Daddy's money fixed everything, right?
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