The intellectual equivalent of a ham sandwich.

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Awkward Quick Hits

I went to a big meeting and asked a question which was not a question but really more of a complaint about the current setup for the project the meeting was about. Later that day I was walking to the bathroom, and from the other end of the hallway my boss’s boss was also walking there. He said, “you troublemaker!” I laughed and went in the bathroom. Then he came in. We ended up sitting in stalls next to each other … I wanted to either undo  my being in the bathroom or shout, “HERE COMES TROUBLE!”

I was hanging out with a friend, along with her girlfriend and another friend of ours. My friend said something about liking chick-chick flicks. Then she asked if I knew what that meant. I assumed it meant a really girly chick flick, but then something about how she asked made me think – wait, “she’s talking about girl-on-girl porn??” Then, after I mentioned porn, she became embarrassed for me and explained that chick-chick flicks are a romance movie where the two characters who fall in love (not lust) are girls. Whoops.

I went out on the town with some friends and was introduced to friends of my friend with this – “This is Brad, he’s a really crazy dancer.” The response from one guy was, “I can tell by his bone structure!” Later the three of us walked over to a group of girls to try and muster up the courage to talk to them (I talk a big game and say ‘let’s do it!’ then I chicken out). While we’re standing there a girl came up and asked if we had a lighter for her cigarette. We said no, then the friend-of-friend said, “this guy’s dance moves will light a fire though!” Then the two friends and the girl stared at me. I stared back – too much pressure! – and did nothing.  (But that line of his still cracks me up.)

And I’ll end with a brag – I was very proud of this little joke of mine. Two friends of mine and I headed to lunch one day, and when we arrived we got out of the car. There was a construction site nearby and a man was banging something metallic on something else metallic. I said, “that is the worst steel drum band I have ever heard!” (Actually I said that’s the worst Jamaican band I’ve ever heard – but I’ve revised the joke now that I have time and can remember what I intended to say.)

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A Heartfelt Offer …

The summer after my sophomore year of high school I got a job with sweet hours. It started at ten pm and ended anywhere from midnight to three am.

As I was in high school and I had no social life or car (or license, even) this was not money I actually needed. The job was just to do something, make money, and satisfy my dad.

In the mid-morning/lunch-time I would arise.

Ready to start yet another world-changing ambitious day.

First, breakfast. Then, sitting around for about ten hours. Then, work.

Life was good.

At some point, as it was summer, tennis began to dominate a lot of channels. Some famous tournament or another, probably, but I couldn’t be bothered with the trifling details. After all, we’re talking about tennis. Who really cares?

I watched anyway, though.

I had higher, more altruistic goals than mere sport.

Mine were matters of the heart.

It was around this time that the Anna Kournikova stuff was at a fever pitch. She’s so hot this and she’s so hot that. Blah blah blah.

People, listen – a lot of tennis players are hot.

These are tall, athletic, tan, lean people. What’s not hot about that?

Sure, there are some that are maybe, well, scary. These ones you count out.

But the rest … ahh … the rest.

I fell in love (not actually) maybe every other day.

Hello … beautiful.

Oh, look at that name you have. Isn’t that cute? I could never pronounce that even if I tried, my darling.

You will of course learn English, and find some magical way to make the Russian accent sound sexy rather than frightening? Oh, thank you my sweet.

I had come up with the perfect plan.

Forget this Kournikova stuff. She was too famous.

I would go to some tennis tournament with my sights set on some young, crappy tennis player who had, nevertheless, managed to qualify for this tournament.

She would be gorgeous, but she would be a loser – and therefore have her confidence shot.

I would have a shoulder to cry on.

That broad shoulder to cry on … Well, except when you compare my shoulders to hers. Then my shoulders, for some odd reason, make you think of Charlie Brown.

This unknown tennis player would then begin to like me. As she would inevitably continue to lose tournaments (and thus not gain fame or notice) I would be right there – comforting her, consoling her, offering to make out with her.

Unknown beautiful tennis players of the world, let me make this offer to you.

I don’t know really anything about tennis (I do own a racket though).

I don’t know anything about your crazy home country (in my country, my papa, he would catch fish, and then … we would eat it! Hahaha!).

I don’t even know anything about you (except that form-fitting tennis skirts are your friend).

I do know this – I’ll make out with you (lots).

Think it over.

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What’s Chinese for Italian?

Two of my friends and I went to eat dinner at a Chinese restaurant.

My first friend ordered his meal, and found out that it came with a soup or salad. Great, he said. What kinds of dressings do you have?

The waiter said something, “and ranch.”

“Uh,” my friend said, not sure what the first thing was, “I’ll do the first one.” He picked that one because he assumed it was some Chinese-food kind of dressing and wanted to try it.

The waiter then repeated the dressing, and this time it was plain as day what it was he’d said.

The waiter repeated the dressing name for confirmation. This time I understood him.

“Yes,” my friend said, still not understanding the waiter.

“What’s that taste like?,” my other friend asked, trying to figure out the dressing.

The waiter looked at us like we were idiots. I had to keep back a laugh. The waiter thought for a minute and then said, “Italy.”

The dressing, by the by, was Italian.

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