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Howdy, friendly reading person!
I'm on a bit of a hiatus right now, but only to work on other projects -- one incredibly exciting example being the newly-released kids' science book series Things That Make You Go Yuck!
If you're a science and/or silliness fan, give it a gander! See you soon!

The “Other” Peoples’ Party

It’s interesting how set in our ways we can become — and how foreign other peoples’ choice and lifestyles can then seem.

Take last Saturday, for instance. My wife and I attended a party thrown by a new friend of hers. She seemed like a nice girl. Solid greeting technique. Respectable decor. No telltale psycho-nut pupil dilation. Perfectly normal, or so it would seem.

“Solid greeting technique. Respectable decor. No telltale psycho-nut pupil dilation. Perfectly normal, or so it would seem.”

Little did we know.

As we mingled among the other unsuspecting revelers, it gradually became clear that things were not quite as they seemed. There was something about this apartment we were blithely eating and drinking and chatting in. Something different.

My wife noticed the first horror. My wife innocently went to the fridge to grab a beer, and came back with a Sam — and an anomaly.

Wife: Hey, I noticed she keeps her eggs in little individual plastic egg cups, instead of leaving them in the carton. Weird, right?

Me: I don’t know. A little unusual, I guess.

Wife: Yeah. I smell disaster here. This is not going to end well.

Me: Oh, stop it.

We were able to put the shocking discovery behind us and enjoy ourselves. For a while. Until we decided to partake of the snacks laid out by the hostess.

Me: Look, there’s crackers and dip.

Wife: Ooh, that sounds go–wait a minute. What the hell is this?

Me: What?

Wife: A knife? In the dip? What kind of animal serves dip with a knife?

Me: I… don’t know. A human animal?

Wife: A filthy unwashed human animal, maybe. Dip comes with spoon. Not knife.

Me: Okay. You might be overreacting a little.

Wife: This knife is an abomination to everything that’s ever been sacred, ever. That’s all I’m saying.

Me: Fair enough. Now settle down.

That took a little longer to get past. We were just settling — cautiously — back into our party groove when the next bombshell landed.

Wife: What the?

Me: What now?

Wife: That clock. Her clock. It’s got Roman numerals.

Me: So?

Wife: In this day and age? Seriously? She thinks we’re all assholes, is that it?

Me: I don’t even know… what?

Wife: I mean, even owning a Roman numeral clock — and then putting it out for a party? That’s… gah! She’s worse than Hitler!

Me: Get a grip, would you? You’re embarrassing me.

I should probably point out that some — or all — of these conversations may have happened entirely in reverse. May.

Honestly, who can remember who said what to whom when there are dip knives and Roman numerals involved? I know I can’t.

Not on the record, anyway. That’s for sure.

Meanwhile, back at Satan’s Cotillion:

Wife: I just got back from the bathroom!

Me: Uh… congratulations?

Wife: Do you know what I found in there?

Me: No. But please tell me you didn’t take a picture of it.

Wife: Not that. The toilet paper. My god, the TOILET PAPER!

Me: What’s wrong with it?

Wife: Wrong?! I’ll tell you what’s “wrong”. Overy-undery. That’s what’s wrong.

Me: Lord. So?

Wife: It’s like a party from caveman times. Or the Third World. I’ll tell you, this whole thing smacks of something.

Me: Smacks? What?

Wife: Communism. This girl is a Marxist. Absolutely. It explains everything.

Me: Did you… huff Drano while you were in the bathroom?

Wife: I’m serious! The knife, the egg cups, the capital economy-hating overy-undery — the signs are all there, hon.

Me:

Wife: Open your eyes and smell what the proletariat’s brewing!

Me:

Wife: Commie convention here! Get yer plowshares and drab outfits and wait in line for Levi’s, like the rest of us!

Me: All right. It’s time to go.

Wife: We’re number ‘i’! We’re number ‘i’!

Me: Jesus. Come on.

So we left. On the way out, my wife — or, just possibly, me; again, who can recall, really? — said a few more things that could make for some uncomfortable encounters later. Something about the Cold War and Cuban “missiles” in a Roman bathhouse, involving a spoon. Or ‘spooning’. It’s all kind of a blur, frankly.

Let’s just say it was perhaps not the finest moment for whichever of us was needlessly riled up at the time. And I don’t think we’re invited back any time soon. Even if we bring the wodka. So that’s kind of a bummer.

On the other hand, where’s the loss? Overy-undery? Pffft. Philistine.

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