It’s probably good that Whiskey and I live in different states. If we lived down the street from each other then this blog would probably be a podcast streaming constantly and we’d no longer have families.
You see, you might think we’re funny. Jesus, I hope someone out there thinks we’re funny. But nobody is more impressed with our cleverness than we are. We crack each other up.
I remember riding around San Diego with Whiskey and some poor bastard driving and we passed a sign that said something about a fishmonger. I giggled. “That sounds like something you could get arrested for,” I said, sending Whiskey into this long, deranged diatribe about fishmongers that I can’t even remember but I couldn’t breathe I was laughing so hard. I vaguely recall him doing a pretty decent mom impression saying, “Stay away from the fishmonger, kids…”
The driver was not laughing. Probably because he could only understand about a third of what was said. When Whiskey and I get together we speak in a language of obscure historical/literary/shitty-television/family-history references that make perfect sense in our heads but fail the test of real world application. There’s also the problem where half of our sentences get cut off by the other one’s “hilarious” interjections.
It irritates the hell out of everyone who isn’t us.
Things people have said to us:
“You guys know you’re not on camera, right?”
“Being around you two is like being on a sit-com but no one else got a script.”
“Stop it. No one can understand you. There is nothing funny about what is happening right now.”
“If you keep talking like that around your grandmother she’s going to disinherit you.”
“Everyone knows what a fishmonger is – stop being weird.”
“Humor is inappropriate for this assignment.”
“Your pupils are huge – are you on drugs?”
So in the blogging world, you’re supposed to find your tribe – the people who understand you. This is possibly why our numbers are so abysmal.
We’re like that drink that had that weird flavor and you ended up liking it but you never ordered it again.
I think it’s called a Negroni.
W. “Negroni sounds like the name of a fishmonger with bad intent. Watch out for old man Negroni, he’s got a funny way with the Halibut.