The Quotes That Never Were

I've messed with the English language many times before on this blog. Well, today I'm messing with it in the form of famous movie quotes. Why, you ask? Why do I do anything I do? (That's not a rhetorical question; I really want to know.)

I suspect others have come up with similar variations on some of the following, but as they say: Imitation is the sincerest form of laziness.

• "What we have here is a failure to—What I'm trying to say is we're having trouble—Are you even listening to me?"
   
• "Mama always said life was like a box of chocolates: pretty sweet, although nutty at times, and if you don't keep trying new things, it gets stale."
   
• "With great power comes ginormous electric bills."
   
• "The greatest trick the devil ever pulled was to convince the world its card was the eight of clubs."
   
• "All work and no play make Jack repeat himself."
   
• "I love the smell of napalm in the morning. In the afternoon, I prefer a really strong vinegar. At night, a burning sulfur is simply divine."
   
• "The first rule of Fight Club is: you do not talk about Fight Club. I'm already breaking that rule. I am Jack's raging hypocrisy."
   
• "You know how to whistle, don't you? You just put your lips together and blow. But not all the way together, and you also have to do this thing with your tongue."

I hope you found these funny. But funny how, I mean funny like a clown? I make you laugh, I'm here to amuse you?

Yes. Yes I am.

A Penny For Your Thoughts

When our cat Calypso died in March, it left a kitty-shaped void in our home. We waited the requisite three months (as stipulated by our vet, to ensure the virus had left Schrödinger's system). Then, last month, we filled that void. You know, with a cat. Specifically, this one:

Her name was DarkWing. Which is a pretty stupid thing to call anything other than a duck, so we promptly changed it. And thus, she became Unnamed Kitty. (Just for a couple days. Now she goes by Penny.)

She's Penny because of Sheldon on Big Bang Theory. You see, when The Professor was even littler than he is now, the lullaby we sang to lull baby to sleep was "Soft Kitty," albeit with one slight adjustment:

Soft kitty, warm kitty,
Little ball of fur.
Happy kitty, sleepy kitty,
Schrö-ding-er.

Therefore, it only made sense for our new cat also to have a connection with Sheldon. And what better way than to call to her with a simple <knock knock knock> "Penny"?

She was fantastic with our son from the get-go, and she and our dog Sonya peacefully coexist (with the peace occasionally broken by a bark). She and Schrödinger, however, are like two peas in a pod—very spastic peas who wrestle and play in water and chase each other all over the pod that is our house. He shreds cardboard; she gnaws on actual boards. And wicker. (And plastic.)

Penny may not be the lap cat her predecessor was, but she's a perfect fit for us.

Family complete.

Professor Cupcakeface

The last two weeks, you may have noticed I've been ignoring my blog sweating profusely busy living. The highlight of the past fortnight: My son turned one.

Here are my answers to the most common questions concerning The Professor:

• No, he's not walking on his own yet. He is, however, an Olympic speed-crawler, a master xylophonist, an expert stair-climber, and the world's foremost daddy-climber. He also currently holds the record for fastest floor-to-mouth time, public toy division.
• Two and a half teeth.
• He is eating us out of house and home, and then house again for good measure. He eats anything and everything we give him, sometimes in greater quantities than us.
• Favorite food: Cherries. He'll eat them until he's purple in the face. And the hands. And the hair. And the ears. And the...
• Favorite phrase: "Uh oh."
• Favorite game: Going pell-mell for the dog bowls and trying to flip one over before we reach him.
• Favorite birthday gift: The card with the vibrating baby in it.*

* It's not a live baby. It's a picture of a baby holding maracas, shaking "what his mama gave him." I'm not sure if that's any less disturbing.

What's that? You're tired of reading my drivel and want to see the pictures? Well, here you go, you ingrate:

Bubbles!


He started off slow, taking one delicate pinch of frosting at a time...


...and then someone gave him a fork.


An aerial view of the carnage.


Fully sated, he cast the half-eaten cupcake carcass to the floor.


But then... remorse. Not over the devastation he had wrought on the unsuspecting cupcake, but because the rest of it was whisked away before the dog could share in his fun.


My son: The life of the party.

Last One In Is A Rotten Egg

Well, we've reached the end of the series. Today's suggestion comes courtesy of Kate:

Nate Wilson walks into a bar. The bartender knocks him down with a pun pan, then the manager kneels a pun upon him, punning pinning him to the ground.

"What the hell, Dorothy? This is how you treat the guy who sent you so much business the past few weeks?"

"None of 'em paid."

"None of them? Really? Wow. Sure, I suppose that makes sense for the needle, sea-monkey, bowl of Rice Krispies, Jabba the Hutt, tuberculosis, penguin, Shakespeare, old shoe salesman, barista, barrister, barbarian, and goat, but I figured the priest and rabbi would've paid for the hooker."

"Nope. And now it's time for payback." She removes Nate's shoe and looks to the manager. "Give me your pun pen."

"Someone already numbered his foot," notes the manager.¹

"What?! Who did this to you?!" asks the bartender.

"I can show you. Got any copies of today's New York Times?"

"Yeah, we've got some Times; the Willison Fire Company gives us their spare."²

The bartender grabs a newspaper from behind the bar. Nate directs her to an opinion column.

"The other Nate? That yahoo!"

"Dot, calm down," says the manager.

"Stealing my revenge... I'll kill him!"

"Tell you what, I'll take the photo, shop it around and see if anyone's seen him lately. You can stay here and work on his other foot. Here, use this marker."

"Blargh. I would have preferred a pen pun."

And that will do it for my 10-part series of things walking into bars. Or, counting the two initial posts that led to it, perhaps this was a 12-step program. Either way, it's over. It's been both challenging and fun, but now that I've gotten all those puns out of my system, I can get back to my novel and not worry about any errant puns derailing my train of thought.

Cheers!


¹ Ooh, not only is this a reference to numbered footnotes (which, as you know, are not at all prevalent on this blog), but close friends may also remember my (as-of-yet-unwritten) novel in which the numbers on a newborn's foot determines how he lives his life.
² I tried to do better than this. I really did. I just didn't try that hard.

A Kid in the Bar

I started things off with a needle pulling thread. Here's what's filed into the bar since: a sea-monkey, a priest, rabbi, and hooker, a bowl of Rice Krispies, Jabba the Hutt, tuberculosis, a penguin with William Shakespeare, an old shoe salesman, and a barista, barrister, and barbarian.

Today's suggestion comes courtesy of Beverly Diehl:

A goat walks into a bar. The bartender steps outside and calls, "Hello? Anybody out here? We've got your goat."

"Very funny, kid."

"Whatever, you old goat. Now what do you want? And be quick about it. You shouldn't be in here."

"I want two things. First, a can of Coke, hold the Coke."

"You gonna eat the can? What a pig."

"A pig, me? Please. Second, I'm collecting donations for the Cub Scouts—"

"Curse the Cubs!"

The manager steps up behind the bartender and smacks him with a pan. "Billy! Don't be so gruff with the customers."

"Ow!"

"Now get back behind the bar. And don't just stand there. Look alive, stock the shelves or something." He turns back to the goat as Billy heads to the bar. "Sorry about that. That kid's on rocky ground; complaints against him are mountin'."

"Maybe I should go."

"Nonsense, come to the kitchen with—"

"Yes, you should go!" yells Billy.

"Stay out of this! Again, I'm sorry. He's always trying to horn in on my private conversations. But, if you'll join me in the kitchen, we can talk about a donation."

"That's very kind."

They start walking toward the back. "So, Goat, heard of mutton curry? I'm just about to start a batch." The manager licks his lips.

Billy reaches out from behind the bar and grabs the goat as they pass. He whispers intensely, "Escape, Goat, while you still can. I tried to drive you off, but—"

There is a loud clang, and the bartender slumps to the floor. The manager places the pan on the counter, and puts his hand on the goat's shoulders, shepherding it into the kitchen.

"You know, if you don't mind staying a little while... I'd love to have you for dinner."

And then there was one. Only one more thing will be entering the bar.

And it's me.

A Sidebar at the Coffee Bar

It all began with a needle pulling thread. Since then, these have pushed their way through the door: a sea-monkey, a priest, rabbi, and hooker, a bowl of Rice Krispies, Jabba the Hutt, tuberculosis, a penguin with William Shakespeare, and an old shoe salesman.

Today's alliterative trio comes courtesy of El Julio:

A barista, a barrister, and a barbarian walk into a bar. Barrett, the barrel-chested barbarian (he lifts barbells daily, barring conflict), barks a barrage of orders at the barkeep for mugs of barley and hops.

Barbara, the barista with the barbed wire tattoo and barrettes, barters with him to go half & half on some barbecue wings.

"Where's the baritone?" asks Barrett. "Without Barney, our barbershop quartet won't be complete for the bash at the club. They may cut our act. Though I suppose we could replace him with a bassoon."¹

"You know," says Barbara, "someday I'd like to take a barge to the Great Barrier Reef, perhaps stopping at Barcelona and the Barbary Coast. Just imagine! There could be barracuda and barnacles and Barbarossa and—"

"What does that have to do with anything? Besides, you were raised in a barn. A trip like that might turn out to be more than you bargained for."

"You're always putting up barricades and barriers to my happiness."

"Am not. Say, Bartleby..." Barrett turns to the barrister. "You've been awfully quiet today, but you're always a good barometer for these sorts of arguments. What do you think?"

"I'm not Bartleby." The barrister removes his moustache. "Bartleby is dead."

"The Baron!!"

"Guilty as charged. You should have figured it out when I came in here, though. A barrister is basically a British lawyer, and a lawyer would have passed the bar. Or, whatever its English equivalent is."

"I think it's called a pub."

Two more to go. Next up's a goat.

¹ There you go, Lisa. I have no idea why you wanted a bassoon in there, but it's in there.

Bar Gain Shoes

First into the bar was a needle pulling thread. Then came a sea-monkey, a priest, rabbi, and hooker, a bowl of Rice Krispies, Jabba the Hutt, tuberculosis, and a penguin accompanied by William Shakespeare.

Since my last post was this past Wednesday, perhaps you're wondering why it took so long for this next guy to find his way into the bar. Well, he's old. (Or maybe he just sells old shoes. I didn't ask.)

Anyway, today's suggestion comes courtesy of Lynn Proctor:

An old shoe salesman walks into a bar. As he takes a seat, the bartender says, "Jeez, you stink."

The old man sizes him up. "I advise you to bite your tongue, sir."

"But your odor will drive away my business."

"Tread lightly. Now I would like—"

"Perhaps you'd enjoy a seat on our patio? Honestly, your stench is beginning to clog my nasal passages."

"Sir, my patience with you is wearing thin. Now, I've been straight-laced my whole life, but I've been told I must try your signature drink."

The bartender arches one eyebrow. "The Steel Toad?"

"That's the one. My stepson recommends it highly. It's my sole reason for coming here."

"Stepson, huh? Wow, with your smell I'd have pegged you as a bachelor."

"Lord, you're such a heel. The converse is true. I'm married, with children."

"Let me level with you. It's an expensive drink, and not only do you stink, but you're shoddily dressed to boot. You sure you can foot the bill?"

The old man socks the bartender in the mouth and walks out.

With this subject matter, you probably expected at least one footnote, didn't you? Well, as they say, expect the unexpected.¹ And come back soon; the alliterative trio of barista, barrister, and barbarian are barging in next.


¹ Although, in this case, perhaps you should have unexpected the expected. Then again, I've ruined things by adding this, haven't I? Drat. That is so like me.