The intellectual equivalent of a ham sandwich.

Posts tagged ‘weird’

Farewell, Sneakers

One day in college I sat down at a dining table where a friend was already sitting. He had a spoon and a yogurt in front of him. My friend, as far as I know, was not high. But he looked at the spoon and said, “Made in China. This spoon was made in China. This spoon has done more traveling than I have.”

Today I say farewell to my traveling pals, and shoes that I otherwise wore out all the time. They’ve been to India, Colombia, Peru and work (work more so than the others).

In their old age they had adapted a few friendly practices. For example, ‘smell holes.’ These were holes in the bottom of the shoes to let out any sweaty feet smells … they had the unintended consequence of making this shoes miserable if you wore them on a rainy day. But hey, nevertheless, great innovative idea shoes and I applaud your self-initiative in opening up those holes without first checking with me.

Another thing that one of the shoes was testing (I assume it was a test to prove the worthiness of this idea before the other shoe adopted it) – ‘efficiency optimizer.’ This was where one of the shoes was slowly starting to come apart at the seams, encouraging me to pick the most efficient route whenever I wore them. Good thinking, shoe!

Goodbye old friends.

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If I Was a Spy

Interrogator: We can do this the hard way … or the easy way.

Me: I’d like to hear a bit more about both options, please.

Interrogator: Well the easy way involves a nice, tall glass of milk and a doughnut and the hard way (Laughs darkly) … Well, it doesn’t.

Me: What type of doughnut?

Interrogator: … Listen. You’re paying attention to the wrong details.

Me: I said. What. Type. Of. Doughnut.

Interrogator: I ASK THE QUESTIONS HERE!

Me: Well maybe head to the backroom and ask what type of doughnut, eh chief?

Interrogator: No. We will torture you, or you will tell us what we want to know.

Me: Are you saying the milk and doughnut were a ruse?

Interrogator: Oh my God. Can someone else step in here? It’s like dealing with my child.

Me: Are you saying your child is out there somewhere, right now, eating a doughnut?

Interrogator 2: Ok Phil, let me take over.

Me: A guy named PHIL was going to torture me? That’s embarrassing for everybody.

Interrogator 2: I just ate a delicious doughnut, and now … I’m going to torture you.

Me: That had absolutely zero tension-building. Just awful … What type of dougnut?

Interrogator 2: Jelly filled.

Me: Oh gross. You want to torture me? Make me eat one of those. Blech.

Interrogator 2: You don’t like jelly filled? Are you crazy? Those are the best.

Me: Dude. No. Maple long john, not filled.

Interrogator 2: Oh sick. You’re a sick, sick man. I can’t torture this man … he’s already broken.

Fin

Epilogue: I escape, and go eat a doughnut.

 

 

 

 

Is Your Body an Extremist?

Recently I woke up around 1030 pm (both my wife and I had gone to bed a bit after 8 – PARTY!) and my clothes were soaked with sweat, as was the pillow I have between my knees, and my pj’s. It was … gross. BUT! My fever was gone, I felt great compared to how I was feeling when I went to bed.

After changing clothes, putting a towel down over my side of the bed (seriously … so much sweat), I laid back down and went to sleep.

But … aren’t fevers crazy?

Your Body: ‘Ok, we’ve got a code yellow. I repeat a code yellow. We have some intruders and we’re going to need to combat this so we feel good.’

Creepy, Dark-Hooded Phantom in the Corner: ‘Burn them.’

Your Body: ‘Uh … I mean … we’ve got lots of different blood cells, maybe we just concoct the right mix of -‘

Creepo: (Smiles) ‘Burn them all.’

Your Body: ‘Nah man, you’re not listening.’

Creepo: ‘Do you feel that?’

Your Body: ‘Wait! How are you doing this? Why are we so warm?’

Creepo: ‘No one likes it when the temp is set to 102!’

Your Body: ‘You’re perfectly freaking right no one likes it. Ahhh. I feel miserable!’

Creepo: ‘Yes. YES!’

Your Body: ‘How am I so cold? Quick! Blankets, all the blankets!’

 

Look, I’m no scientist, but this is how I figure it happens. There’s some pyromaniac living inside you who decides to just light the whole place up whenever something is amiss. 

Psychotic, huh?