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I'm pretty sure that I will die a heavy-handedly ironic death. I have… - Death drives a white Honda Civic
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I'm pretty sure that I will die a heavy-handedly ironic death. I have a definite gut feeling about this. It's partly why I'm not an oncologist, because that would GUARANTEE death by cancer [other reasons why I'm not an oncologist: not intelligent, disciplined, nor brave enough; but really, these are far secondary reasons]. So! When I opened up a bottle of multivitamins to discover... THE very hugest multivitamins of all [and really, if multivitamins are the SUVs of pills--like, say, the average multivitamin pill is a Ford Explorer-- then these pills are... a Boeing 747. (Mixed metaphor or bait-and-switch? You be the judge!)] I pretty much made a decision: these pills are not to be consumed by me unless Melissa is around to give me the Heimlich maneuver. [Holy crap, that last sentence kind of looks like a math equation. Replace the semicolon with an equal sign, and there you go. What a mess.] Ha, and seriously, due to our schedules being completely different, these multivitamins have gone pretty much untouched. But today is the day I overcome my fears! Well, kind of. I decided to cut the pill in half, to reduce it to the size of a Hummer [that's for all you "mixed metaphor" voters!]. There! See, easy. I'm so ridiculous, why didn't I think of that earlier? So, I took a gulp of water and swallowed it and--no WAIT, I DIDN'T swallow it; it nearly instantly became COMPLETELY, DISTURBINGLY stuck in my throat, a second adam's apple above my adam's apple! Many glasses of water did nothing to dislodge it--ultimately, five frantic minutes later, eating a piece of bread did the trick. But, unbelievable! As it turns out, that pill was so enormous that cutting it in half created a sharp 90-degree corner that presumably scratched my esophagus. Thank you, jagged mid-sized pill, for nearly realizing my seemingly unfounded fear. Man, Mark: you-hoo, you-hoo, you-hoo oughtta know!


There's a certain kind of guy who calls everything a "bad boy." As in, he'd preface showing you his classic car [and he's definitely also the type to have a classic car] with, "Take a look at THIS bad boy!" And... I can't quite decide how to handle this type of speech. I'm torn between faking that I think he just called ME "bad boy," OR, responding by calling ensuing mundane objects bad boys. Like, in this situation, we'd probably be eating chicken wings and drinking beer, or something, so I could point to a stack of napkins and say, "Hey could I have some of those bad boys?" Maybe point to a pepper shaker and say, "Could you pass that boy boy over there?" Hold up an empty can of beer and ask, "There any more where these came from, bad boy?" Oh, whoops, I just accidentally did what I was going to accuse him of in the first option. So I guess that's probably out. What do YOU think?
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laleche From: laleche Date: September 25th, 2007 08:53 pm (UTC) (Link)
This bad boy was hilarious!
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