(Setting: My house, as the wife spots the now semi-empty steel can we’ve been using to collect bacon grease.)
THE WIFE– What happened to all the bacon grease?
ME– I threw it away in the trash.
THE WIFE– Why didn’t you just throw away the whole can?
ME– So I could reuse the can for more bacon grease. And so I wouldn’t have to throw away a can.
THE WIFE– You are officially the Recycling Nazi.
ME– I prefer “Recycling Fascist.”
THE WIFE– (Coming over to tickle me) More like “Recycling Fat-scist.”
(Pass the bacon, y’all.)
(Setting: our living room, as the end credits roll on our six-month-old DVRed copy of JUSTICE LEAGUE, a movie which I have only now finally got around to watching and which my wife has only now finally got around to reading a book during, punctuated by long stretches of looking over the edge of her iPad to stare at Jason Mamoa as Aquaman, a little drool running out of the edge of her mouth.)
ME— Huh. Well, as not great as that movie was, it was not nearly as bad as I expected it to be.
THE WIFE— (grinning) Isn’t there a movie with just Aquaman in it?
ME—Yes. It’s called “Aquaman.” And it is in theaters now.
THE WIFE— (Giggles) I would go see that. (Sly grin.) Maybe they’ll have more scenes of him drinking and stomping around.
ME—(Stunned) You liked that, huh?
THE WIFE—(Beaming) Uh huh!
ME—You are a puzzle I will never solve. When I drink and stomp around you say I’m an alcoholic.
THE WIFE—Yeah, but I have to live with you.
(Cut to the following evening, as we emerge from the local cinemaplex having viewed all 2 hours and 22 minutes of Aquaman.)
THE WIFE— That was a terrible movie
THE WIFE— But Jason Mamoa was pretty.
ME— He was prettier than Amber Heard and her clown wig.
WHAT I *SHOULD* HAVE SAID TO THE TELEPHONE CENSUS WORKER WHO’S BEEN TELEPHONICALLY HOUNDING OUR HOUSEHOLD FOR THE LAST SEVERAL DAYS WHEN HE FINALLY CAUGHT ME AT HOME YESTERDAY: “I’m sorry, but I’m currently in the throes of some as-yet-undiagnosed anger management issues and am therefore incapable of conducting this call in anything approaching a non-sarcastic tone, at best, and which will in all likelihood grow into naked belligerence and assholitry as the call progresses. And let me be clear that the reason for my anger is due entirely to the realization of how the next half hour of my life is going to be spent–which is to say, talkin’ ta you. Now, I realize it is our civic and legal duty to conduct census interviews, even the inconvenient and time-consuming ones such as your American Community Survey– a census survey, I might add, which asks more pressing and detailed questions about our personal financial data than are even required by the IRS. And given that civic and legal duty, I would normally like to be of assistance, especially since you have now assured me that this is to be our penultimate interview in the seven, count `em, SEVEN, semi-consecutive monthly interviews for this survey. (To your credit, you did take eight months off after the first four.) However, my suspicion that, as in the previous six interviews, the same questions will be repeated on multiple occasions during this interview session (beyond just asking the same questions about me and additionally about my wife, meaning multiples of two) will cause me to become further enraged at having to participate, as will the fact that our answers have essentially remained unchanged throughout our aforementioned six previous monthly interviews. Add to this the fact that the very specific financial information you seek to gather from us is of the sort that can be quite difficult to determine off the top of one’s head if you’re a freelancer as I am (such as the fact that I don’t always know how many hours I spent working on a freelance job if I am not being paid by the hour for it; and even if I was working by the hour, I don’t have that information on my person at all times). I fear therefore that this interview will only further fuel my ire at having to conduct it in the first place. This being the case, it’s probably best for all of us that you call back on another day, preferably one when my wife is home. I’m not saying she won’t be as irritated by your interview as I am, but she is at least able to mask it more skillfully than I am currently able. Thanks so much. Buh bye.”
WHAT I *ACTUALLY* SAID WAS: “How long will this call take?”
And this is the point at which the census worker tipped the scales of assholity for me by blatantly lying in his reply of, “A couple of minutes.” For he then proceeded to put questions to me at the speed, though not the level of annunciation, of the Micro Machines guy for the next 25 minutes. This speedy delivery required me to keep interrupting him, every third question, to ask for him to repeat said question. And despite his own timetable of “a couple of minutes” he somehow seemed annoyed with me when I interrupted at seven minute intervals to point out that my stopwatch was proving his “couple of minutes” woefully more inaccurate as the seconds ticked by. I eventually suggested that he should get around to looking up the definition of the word “couple” before tossing it about so freely, as some of us actually know that definition (“two people or things of the same sort considered together”), and even by the standards of its loosest and most idiomatic meaning (“more than two but still very few”) fourteen minutes does not fall within that range. At my next stopdown, 21 minutes in, he suggested that if I hadn’t kept interrupting him so much then the interview really would have been over in a couple of minutes. He actually said that. And this was the point at which I was compelled to suggest further that he may not know how words or time work.
Should have gone with option #1.
Dressed in our casual formal finest, my wife and I approached the host station of the ship’s main dining room hoping to get a table for dinner. In line ahead of us, however, was an older man on a Rascal Scooter, was clad in what appeared to be loose, baggy, white pajama shorts, from which were sticking his pale bird legs, and a dinner jacket.
MAN: You mean I have to go all the way back upstairs just to put on pants?! Aw, come on!!!
The maître d tried gamely to inform the man and his wife that he could indeed find a table for them if they insisted, but he suggested it would really be for the best if the man simply went and put on pants. Meanwhile the man on the scooter was attempting a three point turn on the Rascal, in an effort to beat a snail-crawl retreat, while his wife loudly defended her husband’s attire and good name.
WIFE: What’s the matter with what he’s wearing?! I’ve seen people in there wearing rags! Rags!!
We saw the man return later wearing pants, sans scooter.