You Can't Make This Stuff Up
I found this transcript in my files tonight. It’s one of my favorite encounters.
Kid, upon watching video of himself sneaking into the teacher’s lounge, kicking the machine, and stealing candy about thirty minutes prior: That ain’t me!
Principal: The person in the video looks exactly like you and is wearing the same clothes you’re wearing right now.
Kid: He must have stole them from my locker!
Principal: But you’re wearing them now.
Kid: He must have put them back, and I found them again, and put them on.
Teacher *: What were you wearing before you found your clothes again and put them on?
Kid: I forget.
Kid’s mother: That’s not him!
Kid’s mother’s this week’s boyfriend: It is too, the stupid lying little shit.
Kid’s mother: He wouldn’t do that! He’s not that kind!
Boyfriend: Looks to me like he is.
Kid: It ain’t me! I swear it ain’t!
Kid’s mother: He swears it ain’t him. That tells me it positively ain’t him. My boy don’t lie.
Principal: Let’s play the video again, in slow motion.
Kid: No! I think that’s a kid disguised as me, with my shirt, and my face, and my hat.
Kid’s mother: I think so, too. That ain’t my son. That’s some dirty little thief with my son’s shirt and hat on. You should find that kid and torment him! He’s got my son’s shirt and hat!
Principal: And his fingerprints and face.
Boyfriend: Haw haw, this is hilarious.
Kid’s mother: Whose side are you on, you short-dicked parasite?
Boyfriend: After last year, darlin’, I’m on the side of the law.
Principal: Does anybody have anything else to say before we turn the video over to the police?
Kid: Can I eat the candy now?
Kid’s mother: Shut up, you little idiot!
This kid was in the 8th grade, by the way.
* Guess who?
Bikini Talk: Itsy, Bitsy, Teeny, Weeny, and Polka-Dotted.
See these? They’re trash bags.
Remember me? I’m the crazy lady who gets all excited about trash bags.
But if you had to drive around all week with your trash in the back of your pickup truck, you’d want cute trash bags, too. I live out in the country. We have no trash pickup. We drive to the dump every Saturday, and eat at Snow’s Drive-in afterwards. It’s an enviable life.
And if you hated roaches and ants and bees and wasps and gnats and creepy crawly icky things that like to get in your house and crawl out onto the carpet when guests are looking and possums who eat your cats’ food, you’d get excited about these trash bags, too.
They’re Repell-em bags, of course, and they honestly, truly work.
And now, for pictures and information about the bikinis. . . oops, LOOK at the time. Sorry, come back later.
We Will All Go Together When We Go
I am quickly swept off my feet by a man who can turn a phrase well. Quirky rhymes of rhythmic perfection? I’m his. Tom Lehrer, be mine?
Of course, he’s eighty years old now so he probably wouldn’t be interested, but Tom? Are you there, Tom? You were a frickin’ genius THEN and you’re a frickin’ genius NOW and I LOVE YOU.
But now I should calm down lest I say something inappropriate in the primal heat of my love for Tom Lehrer.
Masochism Tango, anyone? Elements? Werner Von Braun? Vatican Rag? Pollution? National Brotherhood Week? So Long, Mom? Who’s Next? I Got It From Agnes?
What’ll it be?
What’s that you say? Why of COURSE! Poisoning Pigeons in the Park, it is.
