Spitball Army

Toothache assessment: “I’ve been prostrated with the agonies of the damned.”

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She does love old movies, so it shouldn’t have been a surprise when she said “basil” as if it were cast in a Sherlock Holmes film.

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Do-rag-wearing huckster to me at gas station: “Hey, Boss-man!” I think: You’re perpetuating a Black stereotype that thousands have died while attempting to eliminate. But I don’t say it. Instead, I post it on my blog.

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You’ll be better off, she said. Turn that down, she said. It’s the same every time, she said. Don’t mix beer and wine, she said.

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Listening 101: As she hands me my sandwich – ordered as “no ketchup, please” – she asks me, “Would you like ketchup with that?”

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Your Facebook post: I liked it. You liked my like. I liked your like of my like. You liked my like of your like of my like. Etc.

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“It’s pronounced igyooAHN’ah,” she tells me. “Not igWAHN’ah.” I immediately regress to the shame of my WorSESS’tershyer past.

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I guess if the South can have cheesy grits, then Boston can have bakedy beans and Olive Garden can have a bottomless salady bowl.

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A verbal exchange over a Scrabble game on The Big C: “Apse. What the hell is that?” “It’s like the front of a church.” “Couldn’t you just have spelled Apes?”

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“Wank” is not a word in Scrabble.

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