How are you?
I'm fine as the pinfeather fluff around a chicken's anus.
In terms of the universe, our sun. In terms of the planet, man. In terms of the Midwest, hot pants.
By court order, my fly.
All items I've designated for bakin'.
What've you been up to lately?
My days are split evenly between trying to broker a land-for-peace deal between Jerry and Dick van Dyke, obtaining clinical proof that intestinal fortitude is not a substitute for dietary fiber, traveling to a merry dream world where Dick Cheney is imprisoned for 30 years for beating Dubya into a coma and re-choreographing the Bunny Hop for the wheelchair-bound.
How about this weather?
Terrible. It gives any simpleton license to make conversation.
Do I make you happy?
That depends. How many more questions are there?
What happened to the kind, caring man I fell in love with?
I kicked his ass outta here after he made a pass at me.
What do you think you're doing?
At this moment, I believe my actions could be described as "pre-prosecuted."
Do you know how that makes me feel?
Instead of guessing whether "Yes" or "No" is the least wrong response to your question, I will simply move my head in small ambiguous circles.
How could you?
Through a grant by the Chubb Group.
Will you please leave me alone?
I'd be happy to.
Was it good for you?
Yes. Except for the few minutes where my modem went down and I had to return my right hand to the keyboard to reestablish the connection. :-(
Out and About
Do you know why I pulled you over?
Absolutely. You've randomly selected me from the thousands of traffic violators sharing this highway in order that I may be the next victim of your ongoing ego-feeding power trip or you're a delusional control freak with an unrealistic view of your role in bringing order to an inherently disorderly world, probably the result of a chaotic or abusive childhood, or you want to enforce your parochial, nay, fascistic interpretation of the traffic code by forcing me to give up my monkey chauffeur.
Can I help you find something?
Yes. Please locate with your hands my vas deferens.
How would you like to pay for that?
I would like to calculate the square root of the total price and give you that amount in Canadian dollars.
What album is "Won't Get Fooled Again" on? '70s Hit Singles for $600, Alex.
Paper or plastic?
I'm 100 percent plastic.
Do you have any coupons?
No. Before I left the house, I decided to try and get through a whole day without looking like a loser.
May I take your order?
Yes. Klaatu. Barada. Nikto.
Got any change?
Yes. Except I call it my tech stock portfolio.
Hey, shithead, are you lookin' to get your ass kicked?
No. But through sheer dumb luck it would appear I've stumbled on the perfect opportunity.
Have you been drinking?
Have you been breathing?
Don't you ever get tired of sitting on your ass?
Yes. And when that happens, I go to bed.
Could you hurry up?
Sorry, no. Hurrying is for Jack Russell terriers, the hyperactive, meth freaks, silent movie comedians and Survivor cast members who want to cash in on their celebrity status.
What's wrong with you?
Gastroesophogeal reflux disease, sinusitis, swine flu, dropsy, mopishness, hammer toes (3), low cheekbones, lazy eye, bashful bladder, arrogant sternum, stationary carsickness, seasonal impotence, willful incontinence, neat-freakishness, flimflam on the flippity-flop, flaunting-o mi perfecto Spanglish todo el time-o, spandex frenzy and chronic listing syndrome (both kinds, the inner ear disorder that causes one to stand several degrees off perpendicular and the neurotic tendency to itemize).
Are you nuts or something?
If you define "nuts" as "continuing to do the same thing but expecting different results," then yes. If, however, you define "nuts" as "continuing to do the same thing but expecting different results," then yes again.
Why can't you ever finish anything you start?
Damned if I. ©