More Swingset Accidents
I feel compelled to begin with another tale of my coworker. You may skip this and remain free of my animosity—mostly. In abbreviated form: "Come here, I have a story for you." "Okay." I wheel over in my chair. I'm trying to act busy. "So, Saturday—" "What?" *click click, opening attachment 1 of 2* "Saturday I—look at this poster" "Right—" I look over shoulder. "Shhh." "That refugee thing we went to—" "Yeah?" I look over shoulder again. "Well—oh, this is the same poster?" "No, you clicked—" "Why would they send the same attachment twice?" "What's your story?!" "Why would they—" "YOU KEEP OPENING THE SAME DAMN ATTACHMENT!"
I hope that's as incomprehensible as it can be.
In my bathroom is a dead cricket, on its back. This is how it was slain: Alyssa soaked a washcloth, balled it up, and then dropped it Wile E. Coyote style on the cricket from a great height.
Kelly: you must tell us more on your flaming apartment. Are you now homeless? Are you a hobo? Are you not a hobo? Are you finally going to give up this farsical American life and go back to your Middle Eastern palatinate?
If any of you would like to help propagate rumors about me, you may choose one or more of the following:
1) In a horrible coincidence, not only was Dave's penis lost in a horrific childhood swingset accident, but mine was also lost, but much later in life. I tried to start this rumor two summers ago, but my efforts culminated in me, in a bar, yelling "I have no penis!" while trying to remote control the pool game using a severed NES controller.
I am sure Alyssa would not mind backing up this rumor . . . ?
2) Any other rumors of your choosing that do not involve child molestation or other nefarious sexual relations. (Note: semi-nefarious sexual relations are fair game--sleeping with the postman's wife, or being a quietly flamboyant homosexual, or cross dresser. Perhaps you found a corset balled up in my bag? Well, no. That would only imply that I'd recently bedded a time-traveling Victorian. So I guess that one's out.)
My brain is running weird today. Like, in safe mode. Except no—it's much more like a virus has ravaged my files, and now when I try to open MSN I get Excel, and when I try to visit Attic Apartment I get fatbottomboys.com. (If that really exists . . . please do not tell us.)
Cedar Falls news:
There is a sushi bar. Also—probably not for anyone other than Andy—I saw Umthen. He works at Sam Goody now. He was stocking DVDs and glanced over and didn't say anything and finally I said his name.
"Yeah, hi." He continued stocking, didn't look at me.
"How's it . . . going?"
"TerribleIamsosickofworkingAllIdoisworkLastmonthIwassickofnotworkingandnowI'msosickof thisjobAtleastsixhourseveryday—"
And so on.
And then he bumped into my groin and exclaimed at my lack of manhood. It's true, I said, and told him about the swingset accident.
I hope that's as incomprehensible as it can be.
In my bathroom is a dead cricket, on its back. This is how it was slain: Alyssa soaked a washcloth, balled it up, and then dropped it Wile E. Coyote style on the cricket from a great height.
Kelly: you must tell us more on your flaming apartment. Are you now homeless? Are you a hobo? Are you not a hobo? Are you finally going to give up this farsical American life and go back to your Middle Eastern palatinate?
If any of you would like to help propagate rumors about me, you may choose one or more of the following:
1) In a horrible coincidence, not only was Dave's penis lost in a horrific childhood swingset accident, but mine was also lost, but much later in life. I tried to start this rumor two summers ago, but my efforts culminated in me, in a bar, yelling "I have no penis!" while trying to remote control the pool game using a severed NES controller.
I am sure Alyssa would not mind backing up this rumor . . . ?
2) Any other rumors of your choosing that do not involve child molestation or other nefarious sexual relations. (Note: semi-nefarious sexual relations are fair game--sleeping with the postman's wife, or being a quietly flamboyant homosexual, or cross dresser. Perhaps you found a corset balled up in my bag? Well, no. That would only imply that I'd recently bedded a time-traveling Victorian. So I guess that one's out.)
My brain is running weird today. Like, in safe mode. Except no—it's much more like a virus has ravaged my files, and now when I try to open MSN I get Excel, and when I try to visit Attic Apartment I get fatbottomboys.com. (If that really exists . . . please do not tell us.)
Cedar Falls news:
There is a sushi bar. Also—probably not for anyone other than Andy—I saw Umthen. He works at Sam Goody now. He was stocking DVDs and glanced over and didn't say anything and finally I said his name.
"Yeah, hi." He continued stocking, didn't look at me.
"How's it . . . going?"
"TerribleIamsosickofworkingAllIdoisworkLastmonthIwassickofnotworkingandnowI'msosickof thisjobAtleastsixhourseveryday—"
And so on.
And then he bumped into my groin and exclaimed at my lack of manhood. It's true, I said, and told him about the swingset accident.
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