My know-it-all-roommate Dan and I have funny conversations. (To find out more about Dan, please click the 'Dan' label at the bottom of this post.) Sometimes they're really funny. But mostly they're a complete waste of time, kind of like this blog. Sometimes when I'm upstairs and he's downstairs we'll chat screen-to-screen rather than face-to-face.
Dan: Holy cow, I want a ninja sword. You should come watch this Time Warp. Hurry. They are going to chop pig flesh.
Bart: What in the world makes you think I want to watch pig flesh chopping?
Dan: 'Cause it is awesome! Holy cow! It cut clean through the bone!
Bart: Don't you mean holy sow?
Dan: Wow. He chopped a raw egg without cutting the yoke. I am so getting a sword. I have often needed to chop a raw egg without damaging the yoke and have never had the proper tool...
Bart: ...or skills.
D: Whatever. I am obviously a ninja.
B: Just because you have a ninja sword doesn't mean you have ninja skills. And vice versa.
D: Ping pong skills translate directly to sword swinging... and ninja skills.
B: Which translate directly to killing skills?
D: Well... yes, but I wouldn't need to do any killing with my sword. That's what handguns are for.
B: But what about embryonic chicken feti?
(feti is the plural for fetus. Other examples of this type of pluralization include but are not limited to the following: focus-foci, radius-radii, cactus-cacti, octupus-octupi, alumnus-alumni, platypus-platupi, fungus-fungi, hippopotamus-hippopotami, preying mantis-preying manti, mattress-mattri, Barticus-Barticai, etc.)
D: They are already dead from the cryonics.
B: They are already crying from the death.
D: Well... stuff happens. I'm done bugging you now.
B: Good. Because I'm done letting you bug me.
Showing posts with label pointless conversation. Show all posts
Showing posts with label pointless conversation. Show all posts
Thursday, December 4, 2008
Saturday, November 22, 2008
Freudian Slip
The other day I baked some stinkin’ cookies. They were stinkin’ good. In fact, they were so good they lasted about 13 minutes. Well, my friend Adriana had the audacity to tell me that her cookies are better than mine. I disagreed. Snicker doodles vs Peanut Butter Chocolate Chunk. Seriously? There’s no competition.
Adriana said, “Bart, my love for baking is equal to the love you feel for your own mother… or Steve Nash. It's my favorite pastime."
I chuckled slightly.
Adriana: Telling me that you can make better cookies than me is like telling Tiger Woods you could beat him in a round of golf.
(The mere fact that she was using Tiger Woods as a comparison of herself was very impressive. But it would take a lot more than a sports reference to deter me from winning yet another pointless argument. And this would be a pointless argument because I consider opening a package of pre-mixed dough, slapping it on a cookie sheet, and sliding it into the oven as 'baking'.)
Bart: Oh, so now you're the Tiger Woods of baking?
Adriana: I'm better than the Tiger Woods of baking… but I cant think of a better person to liken it to without being offensive.
(Had she likened herself to, lets say, Giada De Laurentiis then, yes, I would have been offended. But if she compared her talent of baking to Rosanne’s talent of eating… well, I can’t imagine anyone being offended by that.)
Bart: You’re obviously very confident in your so-called ‘skills’... but can you make cinnamon rolls?
Adriana: (With a deliberate laugh) Ha Ha Ha. Is that a serious question?!?
I can bake a variety of cinnamon rolls.
Bart: Well my mom’s cinnamon rolls are the best... no one even comes close. When we visit long-time friends or relatives, usually the first words out of their mouths are: ‘Did you bring cinnamon rolls?’
A: We will just have to agree to disagree on that one.
B: Well I disagree that we have to agree to disagree. You see… you can say you are the best all you want... but until it is proven with hard evidence, all you're saying is words. Words that carry no meaning.
A: Ask my roommates. I bake for them all the time and they LOVE me for it.
B: As far as I know, your roommates come from non-baking homes and their opinion of you could be extremely biased because they've never had baked goods before.
A: Well Bart, you could have been the benefactor of some amazing cookies… but you chose the game. Big mistake. Especially because your team lost.
(Suns vs Jazz… and OF COURSE I chose the game. And don’t get me started on how those idiotic refs called 5 fouls on Steve Nash midway through the 3rd quarter. Honestly?)
A: Okay. that was below the belt. I feel bad. Sorry for the last comment. I like the Suns.
B: I see what you’re doing. You crossed the line and now you're trying to get back in my good graces.
A: I’m not trying to get back in your grace. But, nobody should kid about the Suns or basketball. Its a matter of morals.
(She had a valid point. No one should kid about the Suns or basketball. But I refuse to let her think I recognize that she made a point.)
B: And you are obviously without morals.
A: Listen Wyoming, I know you can’t admit it, because of your ego, but you and I both know that I bake better than you do.
B: Like I said... you're just saying words until you can prove it.
A: Well, there are naked goods over here all the time! I'm not going to deliver them to you like your little servant! If you want to see what everybody else sees and comes over here for, you'll just have to come yourself!
(Ha ha! I was literally on the ground from laughter. She hadn’t caught what she had said… and maybe you as a reader didn’t either. But I did. And I couldn’t help myself… )
B: You wish I’d let you deliver your ‘goods’.
A: I wish you’d let me?!? Ha! As if! My goods are in high demand! I don’t have time for your demands too!
B: I won't argue that... but do you have time to realize your mistake?
(She then realized what she had said and tried to cover it as a “Freudian Slip”. This reminded me of a joke I once heard. It is my all time favorite. It always makes me smile. But beware, I’m a guy.)
Two men are talking in the bar sharing their sob stories.
One man says, "I had the worst Freudian Slip the other day."
The other man responds, "What is a Freudian Slip?"
"You know, it's when you mean to say one thing, but you say something else that reveals what you are really thinking about. Like the other day, I was at the airport and this really beautiful lady was helping me. Instead of asking her for 'two tickets to Pittsburgh', I asked her for 'two Pickets to Tittsburgh."
The second replies, "Oh, now I know what you are talking about. It's like the other day when I was having breakfast with my wife. I wanted her to pass me the Orange Juice, and instead I said, "YOU STUPID WENCH YOU RUINED MY LIFE!"
Adriana said, “Bart, my love for baking is equal to the love you feel for your own mother… or Steve Nash. It's my favorite pastime."
I chuckled slightly.
Adriana: Telling me that you can make better cookies than me is like telling Tiger Woods you could beat him in a round of golf.
(The mere fact that she was using Tiger Woods as a comparison of herself was very impressive. But it would take a lot more than a sports reference to deter me from winning yet another pointless argument. And this would be a pointless argument because I consider opening a package of pre-mixed dough, slapping it on a cookie sheet, and sliding it into the oven as 'baking'.)
Bart: Oh, so now you're the Tiger Woods of baking?
Adriana: I'm better than the Tiger Woods of baking… but I cant think of a better person to liken it to without being offensive.
(Had she likened herself to, lets say, Giada De Laurentiis then, yes, I would have been offended. But if she compared her talent of baking to Rosanne’s talent of eating… well, I can’t imagine anyone being offended by that.)
Bart: You’re obviously very confident in your so-called ‘skills’... but can you make cinnamon rolls?
Adriana: (With a deliberate laugh) Ha Ha Ha. Is that a serious question?!?
I can bake a variety of cinnamon rolls.
Bart: Well my mom’s cinnamon rolls are the best... no one even comes close. When we visit long-time friends or relatives, usually the first words out of their mouths are: ‘Did you bring cinnamon rolls?’
A: We will just have to agree to disagree on that one.
B: Well I disagree that we have to agree to disagree. You see… you can say you are the best all you want... but until it is proven with hard evidence, all you're saying is words. Words that carry no meaning.
A: Ask my roommates. I bake for them all the time and they LOVE me for it.
B: As far as I know, your roommates come from non-baking homes and their opinion of you could be extremely biased because they've never had baked goods before.
A: Well Bart, you could have been the benefactor of some amazing cookies… but you chose the game. Big mistake. Especially because your team lost.
(Suns vs Jazz… and OF COURSE I chose the game. And don’t get me started on how those idiotic refs called 5 fouls on Steve Nash midway through the 3rd quarter. Honestly?)
A: Okay. that was below the belt. I feel bad. Sorry for the last comment. I like the Suns.
B: I see what you’re doing. You crossed the line and now you're trying to get back in my good graces.
A: I’m not trying to get back in your grace. But, nobody should kid about the Suns or basketball. Its a matter of morals.
(She had a valid point. No one should kid about the Suns or basketball. But I refuse to let her think I recognize that she made a point.)
B: And you are obviously without morals.
A: Listen Wyoming, I know you can’t admit it, because of your ego, but you and I both know that I bake better than you do.
B: Like I said... you're just saying words until you can prove it.
A: Well, there are naked goods over here all the time! I'm not going to deliver them to you like your little servant! If you want to see what everybody else sees and comes over here for, you'll just have to come yourself!
(Ha ha! I was literally on the ground from laughter. She hadn’t caught what she had said… and maybe you as a reader didn’t either. But I did. And I couldn’t help myself… )
B: You wish I’d let you deliver your ‘goods’.
A: I wish you’d let me?!? Ha! As if! My goods are in high demand! I don’t have time for your demands too!
B: I won't argue that... but do you have time to realize your mistake?
(She then realized what she had said and tried to cover it as a “Freudian Slip”. This reminded me of a joke I once heard. It is my all time favorite. It always makes me smile. But beware, I’m a guy.)
Two men are talking in the bar sharing their sob stories.
One man says, "I had the worst Freudian Slip the other day."
The other man responds, "What is a Freudian Slip?"
"You know, it's when you mean to say one thing, but you say something else that reveals what you are really thinking about. Like the other day, I was at the airport and this really beautiful lady was helping me. Instead of asking her for 'two tickets to Pittsburgh', I asked her for 'two Pickets to Tittsburgh."
The second replies, "Oh, now I know what you are talking about. It's like the other day when I was having breakfast with my wife. I wanted her to pass me the Orange Juice, and instead I said, "YOU STUPID WENCH YOU RUINED MY LIFE!"
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
Fly vs Pop Fly
In little league, there are three positions that every kid knows are the ‘cool’ positions: pitcher, short-stop, and center field. If you play any of these, you are cool. These are the kids that get almost every play and actually get to throw the ball. But guess what…
You’re the kid who got stuck in right field. Not because you’ve never played before… but mostly because you suck at baseball. But you don’t know that. With all the positive reinforcement during and after practices, you think your basic skills of fielding, throwing, and hitting are what won you the job. But, you soon find out that right field is boring. So every week you’re hoping that maybe, just maybe, you might get switched to left field. Or that there’s a freak accident and Kyle breaks his cool, auto-shading glasses, leaving him artificially blind until he can get a new pair.
But until then, you’re stuck chasing bugs and singing the ‘Dandelion Song’, (You grab a dandelion and say in a tone of rhyme, “Mama had a baby and its head popped off.” You then slide your thumb under the ‘head’ of the flower and pop it off, leaving it for dead. Kind of a gruesome picture compared to a girl grabbing the dead, unplucked weed and gently blowing the seeds into the wind while skipping around in a pink dress, humming and giggling) because no one hits anything to right field. You’re in the middle of the mental debate of which flavor of Laffy Taffy to get after the game, strawberry or watermelon, (strawberry is the flavor you can never be disappointed with, but watermelon is multi-colored, with little black candy seeds.) when all of a sudden the coach is yelling your name!
A little dazed at first, you wipe the day-dream slobber off your chin and begin to frantically search the cloudless sky for that little white sphere. You stick your glove high in the air and take a few steps backwards. Still no ball. You glance at Jessica, who’s sprinting towards you from center field, (yes, she’s a girl and yes, she’s better than you) just to make sure you’re in the right area. As you drag your eyes back to the sky, it appears, and it’s hurtling towards you like a heat-seeking missile. The words “I got it!” come barging through your clenched teeth. It’s too late to back down now. And you brace yourself for impact.
Fifteen years down the road, you’re in college sitting with a group of friends trying to figure out why ‘Timber Tower’ was made as a cheaper version of ‘Jenga’ when it has an obvious design flaw: the lip that doesn’t quite let you slide the tower out of its tin container. (It’s also not a perfect 3:1 width ratio, which allows for spaces between blocks, which could in turn affect game-play performance.) Your attention is slightly drawn from the riveting conversation as a small, black fly buzzes around the room. A sly smile appears across your mug and you begin to think of the events about to occur: the fly will casually make its way to your side of the room, its nonchalant manner will infuriate you, and you will be forced to retaliate.
The fly DOES make his way towards you. You tighten the muscles in your hand to a karate-chop position. And you wait… perfectly still… hardly breathing… staring into space… heightening your peripheral vision. Out of the corner of your eye you see it! Your right hand springs into action and you feel a small nick on the back of your hand!
“I got it!” you exclaim proudly. Responses of ‘You did?’, ‘No way!’, and ‘What’d you get?’ simultaneously fill the room.
“No, you didn’t”, replies your always-gotta-be-right roommate, Dan. “See, it’s right there. You didn’t get it.” He points to a little black spec still buzzing around the room.
“But I did get it,” you defend. “I felt it.”
“So if you got it, why is it still there?” comes the inquiry.
“I got it. Just because I got it, it doesn’t mean I demolished or obliterated it. I hit it. Thus, getting it.”
“You obviously didn’t get it, because if you would have gotten it, it would be got.”
“The got I’m referring to isn’t the ‘got’ when catching a pop fly. Everyone who calls ‘I got it!’, while chasing a pop fly, fully determine to catch the pop fly. Anything less is not considered getting it. I’m referring to the ‘I got it!’ used when achieving something extremely rare. ... Like hitting a fly with the back of your hand.”
The others in the room laughingly comment about the pointlessness of the conversation, but you contend that a conversation is only pointless if nothing is learned. The subject quickly changes and you’re left to ponder the unsettled question: Did you get it? Your mind refers to the Count of Monte Cristo: (the movie, because you don't read books) when Edmond Dantes is trapped on the island prison Chateau d'If with the old man. He tries to pass his hand through the dripping water without getting it wet. When he finally does, he could rightly exclaim, ‘I got it!’
Your train of thought is slightly derailed by a buzzing noise. For a second time your hand tightens, and a forceful movement with the right arm follows. You nearly jump to your feet as you boast, “I got it again!”
And the small, black insect continues its wary flight around the room.
You’re the kid who got stuck in right field. Not because you’ve never played before… but mostly because you suck at baseball. But you don’t know that. With all the positive reinforcement during and after practices, you think your basic skills of fielding, throwing, and hitting are what won you the job. But, you soon find out that right field is boring. So every week you’re hoping that maybe, just maybe, you might get switched to left field. Or that there’s a freak accident and Kyle breaks his cool, auto-shading glasses, leaving him artificially blind until he can get a new pair.
But until then, you’re stuck chasing bugs and singing the ‘Dandelion Song’, (You grab a dandelion and say in a tone of rhyme, “Mama had a baby and its head popped off.” You then slide your thumb under the ‘head’ of the flower and pop it off, leaving it for dead. Kind of a gruesome picture compared to a girl grabbing the dead, unplucked weed and gently blowing the seeds into the wind while skipping around in a pink dress, humming and giggling) because no one hits anything to right field. You’re in the middle of the mental debate of which flavor of Laffy Taffy to get after the game, strawberry or watermelon, (strawberry is the flavor you can never be disappointed with, but watermelon is multi-colored, with little black candy seeds.) when all of a sudden the coach is yelling your name!
A little dazed at first, you wipe the day-dream slobber off your chin and begin to frantically search the cloudless sky for that little white sphere. You stick your glove high in the air and take a few steps backwards. Still no ball. You glance at Jessica, who’s sprinting towards you from center field, (yes, she’s a girl and yes, she’s better than you) just to make sure you’re in the right area. As you drag your eyes back to the sky, it appears, and it’s hurtling towards you like a heat-seeking missile. The words “I got it!” come barging through your clenched teeth. It’s too late to back down now. And you brace yourself for impact.
Fifteen years down the road, you’re in college sitting with a group of friends trying to figure out why ‘Timber Tower’ was made as a cheaper version of ‘Jenga’ when it has an obvious design flaw: the lip that doesn’t quite let you slide the tower out of its tin container. (It’s also not a perfect 3:1 width ratio, which allows for spaces between blocks, which could in turn affect game-play performance.) Your attention is slightly drawn from the riveting conversation as a small, black fly buzzes around the room. A sly smile appears across your mug and you begin to think of the events about to occur: the fly will casually make its way to your side of the room, its nonchalant manner will infuriate you, and you will be forced to retaliate.
The fly DOES make his way towards you. You tighten the muscles in your hand to a karate-chop position. And you wait… perfectly still… hardly breathing… staring into space… heightening your peripheral vision. Out of the corner of your eye you see it! Your right hand springs into action and you feel a small nick on the back of your hand!
“I got it!” you exclaim proudly. Responses of ‘You did?’, ‘No way!’, and ‘What’d you get?’ simultaneously fill the room.
“No, you didn’t”, replies your always-gotta-be-right roommate, Dan. “See, it’s right there. You didn’t get it.” He points to a little black spec still buzzing around the room.
“But I did get it,” you defend. “I felt it.”
“So if you got it, why is it still there?” comes the inquiry.
“I got it. Just because I got it, it doesn’t mean I demolished or obliterated it. I hit it. Thus, getting it.”
“You obviously didn’t get it, because if you would have gotten it, it would be got.”
“The got I’m referring to isn’t the ‘got’ when catching a pop fly. Everyone who calls ‘I got it!’, while chasing a pop fly, fully determine to catch the pop fly. Anything less is not considered getting it. I’m referring to the ‘I got it!’ used when achieving something extremely rare. ... Like hitting a fly with the back of your hand.”
The others in the room laughingly comment about the pointlessness of the conversation, but you contend that a conversation is only pointless if nothing is learned. The subject quickly changes and you’re left to ponder the unsettled question: Did you get it? Your mind refers to the Count of Monte Cristo: (the movie, because you don't read books) when Edmond Dantes is trapped on the island prison Chateau d'If with the old man. He tries to pass his hand through the dripping water without getting it wet. When he finally does, he could rightly exclaim, ‘I got it!’
Your train of thought is slightly derailed by a buzzing noise. For a second time your hand tightens, and a forceful movement with the right arm follows. You nearly jump to your feet as you boast, “I got it again!”
And the small, black insect continues its wary flight around the room.
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