Thank you for telling me what a Cleveland Steamer is. As well as alerting me to the Vegetarian Hot Lunch, the Glass-bottomed Boat, and the Strawberry Shortcake. And as for that explanation of the Minivan, wow, that's one little datum I sure can't wait to share.
It was a cocktail-party chat to remember.
[These prizes, as well as many more, are explained here: http://www.urbandictionary.com/ ]
Have you considered therapy?
I only say this because, well, conversationally you are a disaster zone.
Example ONE
Sitting between both of you at the bar, one of you detailing in that unintelligible mumbled drawling growly basso-profundo what a god Michael Jackson was, the other one of you con-mucho-falsetto telling totally unprintable Michael Jackson pedophile jokes nonstop.
I did not need to know he was circumcised.
Example TWO
All three of you disputing, loudly, your paranoid conspiracy theories about Obama.
He's a Communist. He's a Muslim radical. He's the head of the Indonesian Illuminati.
You do realize that everyone within hearing distance thought you were barking mad, don't you?
They were right.
Example THREE
Yes, the German Storm trooper uniforms ARE uber-cool. But no, the SS would not want you under any circumstances - you're gay, you're Jewish, and, clearly, you're missing screws. You're flaming, dude.
But if I meet any jack-booted Germans, I'll be sure to tell them you said 'hellooooooooo, soldier!'.
And that you're free. For them.
Example FOUR
How many of my fellow pipe-smokers does it take to sound like a flock of geese?
No, seriously, are ninety-five percent of all the world's pipe-smokers gibbering maniacs?
One of you has a sense of humour that falls flat all the time, one of you sounds like you've got ADD because of too much caffeine, one of you reduces everything to an engineering question (that's the LAST time I'll ever mention polecats), one of you watches every nice pair of legs that goes by and then tells us about it in extraordinary detail (dude, we saw it too - we we're right here), and one of you keeps bringing up Mesopotamia.
Mesopotamia? WTF.
And that story about George accidentally stomping the pigeon to death was really old a year ago. It does not improve with every telling, nor with all of you telling it one after the other IN EXACTLY THE SAME WAY!
That's an ugly pipe, by the way.
You've got bad taste.
I really thought you should know.
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EDUCATED TASTES
After Thanksgiving (sometime next week), we get to stare Christmas in the face. That cold hard face, those haunted eyes. That incessant nast...
15 comments:
Wow. Umm, I really didn't want to know all those terms. Or what they mean. ick.
I feel the need to go wash my brain now.
Yah, as I said, "It was a cocktail-party chat to remember."
Amazing what some people will go on and on and on about with gin in their stomach.
On the other hand, it turns out I am refreshingly fuddy-duddy and unimaginiative.
Spleen, much?
Spleen, much?
Nonsense! I thoroughly enjoy all manifestations of bonkerty while I'm having a quiet puff.
I am here to observe.
I just wish the rest of the world played better with others.
Me, for instance.
I've only had three and a half hours sleep. Listening to cacaphonous bedlamites while smoking a bowl of my latest fine mixture detracted from the overall pleasure of the experience.
Geese!
Ah yes. the CS. Gross doesn't even cover it.
Were you attacked by Geese?
Mesapotamia?
Maybe the "Fertile Crescent"?
Of course, your own disquisitions on all subjects fumatory are legendary for their pertinance and wit.
that does sound like quite the party. nothing like the boring life of the blog commenter. but hark! i must "choose an identity"! ah, life is grand.
Mesopotamian Geese!
Were you attacked by Geese?
.
.
.
Mesopotamian Geese!
What happened is this: Wednesday night I didn't fall asleep till four o'clock, despite going to bed at nine.
Thursday morning, I went around the corner to have a smoke, and discovered that a number of other pipesmokers had had the same idea at the same time. Twixt Monkey-brain, El Rotundo, and HiyaHiyaHiya, the conversation went into uncharted territory in no time. There's a reason why it's uncharted! Mr. Mesopotamia is also one of the regular customers, as is the engineer.
I had, please remember, had only three and half hours sleep. That first pipe of the day is my quiet time. I am not a social person, and the company of a bunch of people who are obsessively into the same thing - like all the freaks at MacWorld - is enough to drive you batsh*t.
The only good thing is that everyone was smoking English/Balkan blends - roughly forty percent Latakia, 25% Turkish, the rest Virginias with smidgens of toasted Cavendish (not a Cavendish at all, being actually fire-cured Kentucky, and thus more like a Burley or a Maryland aircured leaf as regards natural sugars, nicotine content, smoking characteristics, and general effect on the blend) and merest soupcons of Perique (which, because of the peculiar curing method, has a profound impact even at very minor levels of inclusion.
And in the middle of this conversational storm surge, George walks in. Last year he had ever so carefully tried to step OVER the pigeon, when it dashed underfoot. It squished.
An earthmother-type female saw him step on the pigeon and started screaming that he was a murder! A murderer! A murderer! A very bad individual, an evil person! She did not say 'evil MAN', because that would have been gender-typing and discriminatory, I guess.
For about three months, everytime someone saw him, they would ask if he'd killed any more chickens, or fluffy bunnies.......
Mesopotamian Geese!
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