Me: Oh, yeah? For what?

Pregnant Lady: For my mouth. Is that a good enough answer for you?

Me (absorbing howls of laughter): That’s going on my website. Your name’s going to be “Pregnant Lady.”

Wife: You really did a number on this envelope. That’s not how you’re supposed to open it. We have to mail this movie back, you know.

Mr. Usability: Oh, yeah. I did that without even thinking. I don’t think I read it correctly.

Wife: Read it correctly? It doesn’t look like you read it at all. Otherwise you’d know how to open it.

Mr. Usability: Well, by read I meant interpret. I interpreted the affordance of the envelope to have a certain kind of use. Studies show that people don’t read instructions. That package design definitely has some usability issues. I should write those people a letter.

Wife: Yeah, well, you’re head has usability issues. I’m going to write you letter.

End scene.

You know, there are certain days, and I’ll just take this past Valentine’s Day as my not-so-everyday example, when the most romantic thing your mother and I might say to each other is, “Hey, does it smell like poop in here?”

But the other day you beat us to the punch line.

When your mother insisted that the cat took his revenge in the corner of our bedroom carpet after we had just come home from a small weekend getaway the other night, it was a rare occasion when I had to disagree.

“No,” I thought to myself (yet somehow failed to articulate verbally), “it smells more like human urine, only… if it had somehow been burnt into microscopic vapors by a popcorn machine.” How my subconscious knew that sensory experience is far beyond me, and I’m glad my mind wasn’t asked to take it any further, because when your mother recalled to me the story of how you took absolute pleasure in relieving yourself into our oscillating heater fan just before we left on our trip, it instantly made perfect sense to the two of us.

“Oh, that heater’s going out in the breezeway tonight.”

Thanks for the a-ha moment kiddo.

Love,

Dad

Liz: Your parents are going to see the, uh… Yngwie Malmsteen… Alaskan Orchestra.

Me: They’re called the, uh… Siberian… Huskie… um, Train Wreck

Liz: Sure.

Both: (Uncontrollable laughter.)

Me: I have to remember that for my blog.

Me: I think we need to get together with Brian more often or something. I was talking to him and he had no idea I was a figure drawing major in college.

Liz: You were a figure drawing major in college?

Happy Anniversary, sweety.

Me: …

Seriously, this shit is starting to write itself.

Me: Oh yeah?

Liz (muffled): And “I’ll fight for freedom.”

Me: All fight for freedom?

Liz: No, I’ll fight for freedom. It’s on another sticker. It says I apostrophe L-L fight for freedom.

Me: Oh… (paused in thought) What the hell’s that supposed to mean?

Liz: I don’t know. But driving around in a mini-van’s a pretty good start.

Me (after pausing to think about that last sentence for a moment): Actually, hun, I don’t think Superman eats.

Liz: What?

Me: Well, I’m pretty sure if he was trapped in a desert or something, he wouldn’t need any food or water. He’s, like… super. Y’know?

Liz: What are you talking about? Of course he needs to eat. He’s got a mouth and a stomach just like you and me. It’s not like he’s an alien or something.

Me: No, actually, he is an alien. Planet Krypton ring a bell?

Liz: Well, whatever. He still needs to eat. I’m pretty sure I saw him eating at some point in the movie. He needs to do other things that humans do.

Me: Oh yeah?

Liz: I know I’ve seen him and Lois f—

Thankfully, today’s modern world comes replete with the power of the internet to argue these important issues for us. And just for the record, this Wiki article has this to say about Superman’s inhuman abilities:

Theoretically, Superman has unlimited stamina, nourishment coming from the solar energy his cells process; he does, however, have the psychological need to eat, drink and sleep just as humans do. He can also hold his breath for an undefined duration.

Oh, thanks for settling that one.

“It’s something with a J….

Jason… No, that’s not it.

Jeremy… No, that’s not quite cool enough. He was supposed to be cool, remember? He was the cool one.

It was like… Johnny Ferrari… or something.

Jared… No, damnit, that’s his real name. Okay, let’s stop.”

Suddenly, a female voice from the pool… “Jordan Catalano”

Yes, that’s it! Jordan Catalano!!

Now I can put Jared Leto back in his rightful place in the useless, yet strangely sentimental, trunk of information in my head.