The movie ended quite awhile ago, but I don’t see Imaginary Keith making any moves that resemble anything called work.  If there’s anything blithely powerful lurking under his surface, I certainly don’t see any sign of it.

“Ready to get to work?”
“No.”
“Are you thinking about working?”
“No.”
“Well, what are you thinking about?”
“I’m thinking that maybe Bush has the right idea.  You know, about Mars and that whole space thing.”
“You’re kidding me?  I thought you hated that guy?”
“No, he’s just misunderstood.”
“Misunderstood?  Are you forgetting our trip to Portland?”
“What trip?”
“You know what trip.  The protest trip.  Booing and hissing.  Shaking signs at the motorcade.  That trip.”
“Oh, yea.”
“If I remember correctly, it was you who came up with the idea to shine the flashlight in his eyes.”
“I wanted to see if he’d freeze in the light.”
“For your information, I still limp from that Secret Service roughhousing.”
“It’s hardly noticeable.  And besides, I thought he kind of looked like a prairie dog, the way he popped up so quick like.  Didn’t you?”
“He didn’t look like a prairie dog.  Besides, everyone says he looks like a monkey.  No one looks like a prairie dog.”
“No, he’s definitely not a monkey.  A monkey would have been way more curious about your flashlight.  No, he just popped up and down.  Definitely prairie dog.”

Political discussion rarely goes anywhere in this house.

“The way I see it, if Bush can just get us into space, then he can pass a law requiring all trash to be flung straight up.  It’s simple.  No gravity, no trash.  It just floats away.”
“Like your focus.”
“Huh?”