(no subject)
Babygirl bythewrists thinks of these 4 words when she thinks about me.
Monster Jams
Directed by a Google search and making allowances for my Southern background you might be inclined to think this is a reference to a monster truck rally. You would be wrong. Monster jams are, in course of fact, just good fucking songs. These songs were frequently the subject of -- and only impetus for -- a late-night car ride enjoyed by the lady and myself. How monster were these jams, you ask? Well, I once blew out two speakers listening to "Cum On Feel The Noize." With the aid of Mystikal we accidentally taught a young boy the fear of "dick bandits." And, at a Wendy's drive-thru in Tallahassee, Florida we were awarded the coveted "Keep rocking!" from an employee in response to the decibel-level of "No Diggity."
Bicycle
I have to be honest. I'm not entirely sure why this is on the list. Is it because I can't ride them? 'Cause... I can't. Which is junk-y. Anyway, that was my first thought. Holly said 'bicycles' to me to rub my nose in the fact that I can't ride one. Then I looked again and noticed - she didn't say 'bicycles' plural. She said 'bicycle.' Clearly, then, she was not talking about the incredibly overrated mode of transportation so much as she was referring to the world-famous playing card brand. Now it all makes sense. Holly and I went through a phase in Tallahassee when we didn't have any furniture and we had too much alcohol and the most entertaining thing to be done of a Friday night (or a Tuesday noontime, for that matter) was to chuck a handful of playing cards at the ceiling fan. It sounds like innocent fun and indeed it was until the habit's siren song called us to start throwing other things, like buttons. And pillows. And chicken.
Crepes
Wow, again? Okay, so, we're dumbfucks who don't budget so good. We got to Paris, paid for our apartment, visited Monoprix and Sephora, then realized we had precious little money left. The obvious solution, of course, was a steady diet of streetcart crepes to sustain us for the duration of our holiday. Fortunately, The Young Miss and I were born as crafty as we are lovely and we quickly realized the advantage of continually visiting the same crepe stand. The boys there tried not to laugh at us as, every morning, we studied le menu thoroughly and then carefully ordered the same thing we'd eaten the day before. Eventually they grew to love us and offered us babies, French passports, and free crepes. We accepted the latter.
The previously mentioned impulse to throw throw throw must have snuck across the Atlantic in our suitcases, though, because after a morning of heavy drinking* I am said to report that The Young Miss forcibly relocated at least one free crepe (and possibly a partially eaten second, although my recollection here grows a bit whiskey-tinted and unreliable).
Cooter
OH, C'MON, WOMAN!
Arkadaşlarım, I am sorry to report to you that there is no jazzy story to accompany this association. The fact of the matter is that my father has a horrible sense of humor and that he has been calling me "Cooter" ever since I was a child. I mean, calling me that like a nickname ("What would you like for breakfast, Cooter?") not an accusation ("You're such a cooter!").
I will tell you, though, that I went through a very interesting Google Image Search in an attempt to find a picture for this section. I also discovered that wikipedia has a disambiguation page for "cooter" that helpfully reminds me that it's also a slang term for a snapping turtle and a reference to belligerent drunkenness. The more you know!
* there's a phrase that ought never be uttered, huh?
Monster Jams
Directed by a Google search and making allowances for my Southern background you might be inclined to think this is a reference to a monster truck rally. You would be wrong. Monster jams are, in course of fact, just good fucking songs. These songs were frequently the subject of -- and only impetus for -- a late-night car ride enjoyed by the lady and myself. How monster were these jams, you ask? Well, I once blew out two speakers listening to "Cum On Feel The Noize." With the aid of Mystikal we accidentally taught a young boy the fear of "dick bandits." And, at a Wendy's drive-thru in Tallahassee, Florida we were awarded the coveted "Keep rocking!" from an employee in response to the decibel-level of "No Diggity."
Bicycle
I have to be honest. I'm not entirely sure why this is on the list. Is it because I can't ride them? 'Cause... I can't. Which is junk-y. Anyway, that was my first thought. Holly said 'bicycles' to me to rub my nose in the fact that I can't ride one. Then I looked again and noticed - she didn't say 'bicycles' plural. She said 'bicycle.' Clearly, then, she was not talking about the incredibly overrated mode of transportation so much as she was referring to the world-famous playing card brand. Now it all makes sense. Holly and I went through a phase in Tallahassee when we didn't have any furniture and we had too much alcohol and the most entertaining thing to be done of a Friday night (or a Tuesday noontime, for that matter) was to chuck a handful of playing cards at the ceiling fan. It sounds like innocent fun and indeed it was until the habit's siren song called us to start throwing other things, like buttons. And pillows. And chicken.
Crepes
Wow, again? Okay, so, we're dumbfucks who don't budget so good. We got to Paris, paid for our apartment, visited Monoprix and Sephora, then realized we had precious little money left. The obvious solution, of course, was a steady diet of streetcart crepes to sustain us for the duration of our holiday. Fortunately, The Young Miss and I were born as crafty as we are lovely and we quickly realized the advantage of continually visiting the same crepe stand. The boys there tried not to laugh at us as, every morning, we studied le menu thoroughly and then carefully ordered the same thing we'd eaten the day before. Eventually they grew to love us and offered us babies, French passports, and free crepes. We accepted the latter.
The previously mentioned impulse to throw throw throw must have snuck across the Atlantic in our suitcases, though, because after a morning of heavy drinking* I am said to report that The Young Miss forcibly relocated at least one free crepe (and possibly a partially eaten second, although my recollection here grows a bit whiskey-tinted and unreliable).
Cooter
OH, C'MON, WOMAN!
Arkadaşlarım, I am sorry to report to you that there is no jazzy story to accompany this association. The fact of the matter is that my father has a horrible sense of humor and that he has been calling me "Cooter" ever since I was a child. I mean, calling me that like a nickname ("What would you like for breakfast, Cooter?") not an accusation ("You're such a cooter!").
I will tell you, though, that I went through a very interesting Google Image Search in an attempt to find a picture for this section. I also discovered that wikipedia has a disambiguation page for "cooter" that helpfully reminds me that it's also a slang term for a snapping turtle and a reference to belligerent drunkenness. The more you know!
* there's a phrase that ought never be uttered, huh?