My Cardboard Balcony

by Belinda Roddie "His rhymes are so safe he should be called Bubble Rap." "No." "Seriously, I mean, he doesn't even throw a jab. Let's call him No Punchline." "No." "Oh, no, wait! How about this? His rhymes are so dull, we'll call him Mister Blunt." " No." "Get it? 'Cause he smokes weed, too!" "If you think your cousin is such a shitty rapper, why the Hell are we going to his gigs?" "Gee, I dunno, Aaron - 'cause I love him and stuff?" "I just don't get it." "Hey, man. I get you're not a rap fan." "What?" "You're not a rap fan. Obviously. I mean, my cousin? Rap's his life. I'll make fun of him, but - " "What makes you think I'm not a rap fan?" "I-I dunno. I've never heard you listen to rap?" "Is it because I'm Asian?" "What?" "...

The foreign ambassador said nothing as she sat at the conference table, listening to every word of the negotiations. She wasn't sure if anyone else there realized that she could understand every language being spoken. There was the smooth, yet pompous, French ambassador, trilling and trumpeting about his nation's upcoming election. The sharp and deliberate German ambassador, stroking his thin mustache as he spoke about more personal matters. And of course, the rough Russian, who with every element of his tone sounded like he did not want to be there.