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A cow, an ant, and an old fart are debating on who is the greatest of the three of them.
The cow said, “I give 20 quarts of milk every day and that’s why I am the greatest!”
The ant said, “I work day and night, summer and winter, I can carry 52 times my own weight, and that’s why I am the greatest!”
What are you waiting for?
It’s your turn to say something
Like many men, I am different from my wife in ways, which are noticeable, and, in my opinion, fortunate.
Take the Thanksgiving turkey. (And I mean that literally. PLEASE come over to our house, open the refrigerator, shove aside everything growing green fuzz, and take this carcass away before it reincarnates as turkey lasagna or turkey tetracycline or whatever new concoction awaits the family.) But take Thanksgiving–my wife prefers small birds that fit nicely into the roasting pan and which can be cooked in a few hours.
“Ha!” I can be quoted as sneering. I trace my own gender lineage to that proud, hairy group of hunter-gatherers who, prior to the invention of TV remote control, would take their spears and go pull down a huge bison for dinner, stopping at the bar on the way home for a couple of cave brews. So when I go to the store for a turkey, I find a TURKEY: a Jurassic, many-pound fowl with drum sticks as large as my thighs and wings you could park a car under.
Words cannot describe the delight on my wife’s face when my neighbors help me carry the bird into the refrigerator, where, following the instructions, it is left to thaw for a period of six months. (My wife often has several interesting but impractical suggestions on where else we might stick the turkey for this thawing procedure.) Cooking begins around Halloween, a slow roasting process which varies from my mother’s recipe in that there are no flames or threats of divorce “if anybody says a word about how the turkey tastes.”
I enjoy every step of turkey preparation, particularly since I am not involved in any of it. Well, that’s not entirely true–at one point, I am asked to reach into the mouth of the turkey and retrieve the giblets, which turns out to be a bag of what looks like pieces of Jimmy Hoffa. (I realize I am not, technically speaking, putting my hand in the bird’s “mouth,” but I’d rather not dwell on what this means.) How the turkey manages to swallow this stuff in the first place is beyond me. Traditionally, we open this bag, dump the contents into a pan of water, and boil the results. Only the cat is happy about this development.
As wonderful as this all is, by the fourth or fifth night my appetite for turkey variations has waned, and I provide valuable feedback to my wife by making gagging noises at dinner time. Her verbal (as opposed to projectile) response to this is to imply that it is somehow MY fault we have so many leftovers, to which I logically reply, “hey, YOU cooked it.”
Now, before you men out there become too smug with how adroitly I out maneuvered her with my quick retort, you should be advised that she STILL blames me for our turkey-induced bulimia. Therefore I appeal to my readership: has anyone else noticed bizarre psychiatric spousal reactions to turkey consumption which might explain this whole controversy? Please advise via return e-mail, which will be picked up by the crack WBC technical team and, judging by previous results, forwarded to the Governor of New Jersey.
Thanks… oh, and Happy Thanksgiving, too.
So I’m a white Caucasian female, but I am fluent in Mandarin Chinese and English. Now, looking at me, you wouldn’t know I can speak Mandarin, which is why I find it absolutely hysterical to mess with people when they come through my line speaking Chinese, and I understand every word they’re saying. My co-workers find it especially hysterical.
Okay, so the other day this Chinese couple came through my line, and I asked them (in English) all the questions about the bags and if they had their rewards cards, all of that fun stuff.
Anyway, I started ringing up their stuff, and the wife said to her husband, “Tell her not to bruise the bananas” in Chinese, and I didn’t say anything. The wife said, “Tell the stupid girl to go faster” in Mandarin. I smiled at her and pretended like I had no idea what she was saying.
She kept commenting on how my hair was like a boy’s (I have short hair; honestly, it’s not even that short) and how her grandfather would have gone faster than I was going, all of this in Chinese.
And then she said, “Make sure she doesn’t forget the water” in Chinese, and I replied in English, “I won’t forget the water”
And I watched with enjoyment as a look of sheer terror spread across her face as she realized I understood everything she had said before. She just stood there with her mouth open, and her husband said (in Chinese): “This is why you shouldn’t trash talk employees while they’re standing right in front of you.” And I replied (in English): “He’s right”.
They paid, the husband apologized, and they left. After they walked out the door, my manager, my coworker, and I were laughing so hard. Even though being a cashier sucks, it sometimes makes my day a little brighter when something like that happens.
Yesterday I was at my local Wal-Mart buying a large bag of Purina dog chow for dog and was in the checkout line when a woman behind me asked if I had a dog (duh?). What did she think I had – an elephant? On impulse I told her that no, I didn’t have a dog, I was starting the Purina Diet again. I added that I probably shouldn’t, because I ended up in the hospital last time, but that I’d lost 50 pounds before I awakened in an intensive care ward with tubes coming out of most of my orifices and IV in both arms. I told her that it was essentially a perfect diet and the way that it works is to load your pants pockets with Purina nuggets and simply eat one or two every time you feel hungry. The food is nutritionally complete so it works well and I was going to try it again. (I have to mention here that practically everyone in line was now enthralled with my story.) Horrified, she asked if I ended up in intensive care because the dog food poisoned me. I told her no, I stepped off a curb to sniff an Irish Setter’s ass and a car hit us both. I thought the guy behind her was going to have a heart attack he was laughing so hard. |
While conducting some business at the Courthouse, I overheard a lady, who had been arrested for assaulting a Mammogram Technician, say “Your Honor, I’m guilty but….. There were extenuating circumstances.”
The female Judge said, sarcastically, “I’d certainly like to hear those extenuating circumstances.” I did too, so I listened as the lady told her story.
“Your Honour, I had a mammogram appointment, which I actually kept. I was met by this perky little clipboard carrier smiling from ear to ear and she tilted her head to one side and crooned, “Hi! I’m Belinda! All I need you to do is step into this room right here, strip to the waist, then slip on this gown. Everything clear?” I’m thinking, “Belinda, try decaf. This ain’t rocket science.” Belinda then skipped away to prepare the chamber of horrors. With the right side finished, Belinda flipped me (literally) to the left and said, “Hmmmm. Can you stand on your tippy toes and lean in a tad so we can get everything?” Fine, I answered.
I was freezing, bruised, and out of air, so why not use the remaining circulation in my legs and neck to finish me off? My body was in a holding pattern that defied gravity (with my other breast wedged between those two 4 inch pieces of square glass) when I heard and felt a zap! Complete darkness, the power was off!
Belinda said, “Uh-oh, maintenance is working, bet they hit a snag.” Then she headed for the door.
“Excuse me! You’re not leaving me in this vise grip alone are you?” I shouted. Belinda kept going and said, “Oh, you fussy puppy… The door’s wide open so you’ll have the emergency hall lights. I’ll be right back.”
Before I could shout NOOOO! She disappeared. And that’s exactly how Bubba and Earl, “maintenance men Extraordinaire,” found me… standing on my tip-toes, half-naked with part of me dangling from the Jaws of Life and the other part smashed between glass!
After exchanging a polite Hi, how’s it going type greeting, Bubba (or possibly Earl) asked, to my utter disbelief, if I knew the power was off. Trying to disguise my hysteria, I replied with as much calmness as possible, “Uh, yes, I did, but thanks anyway.” “OK, you take care now” Bubba replied and waved good-bye as though I’d been standing in the line at the grocery store.
Two hours later, Belinda breezes in wearing a sheepish grin. making no attempt to suppress her amusement, she said, “Oh I am sooo sorry! The power came back on and I totally forgot about you! And silly me, I went to lunch. Are we upset?”
And that, Your Honour, is exactly how her head ended up between clamps….” The judge could hardly contain her laughter as she said, “Case Dismissed”.