So, I’m still playing a lot of MVP Baseball on my PC at home.
(Yes, I know what you’re saying to yourself… all this, and he plays video games, too? At some point, even ‘Renaissance Man’ starts to fall short. Who is this guy?)
Anyway, I’ve been playing this game. Or rather, I’ve been puttering around the menus, nitpicking over lineups, trades, and all manner of other nonsense that doesn’t really fall into the category of ‘playing’ anything. Obsessive? Checkerooni.
Now, when you spend time fiddling with these more administrative areas, the game designers have taken steps to ensure that you’re still entertained. Specifically, the game plays music. Super-specifically, it plays the same half-dozen songs over and over. And over. And then again, just for good measure.
So, the songs are all pretty good. And, after a while, you learn them pretty much by heart. Lately, I’ve been tuning in more often than not to a specific ditty: ‘Finding Out True Love Is Blind‘, by Louis XIV. If you’re not familiar with the song, here’s the interesting thing about it: the singer spends a lot of his lyrics on food-related metaphors describing women. For instance, the song begins with:
‘Ah, chocolate girl…‘
We’re also treated to a couple of renditions of:
‘Hey, carrot juice…‘
See? ‘Carrot juice‘ is a metaphor, cleverly referring to a redhead. And ‘chocolate girl‘ means a black girl, probably. She’s even got a ‘vanilla friend, later in the verse’; maybe that one is white. Or blonde. Or albino — and what’s hotter than that? I ask you.
Either that, or this guy is picking up chicks in a cafeteria. How the hell should I know? I’m too old to be interpreting any of this crazy new music these days.
On the other hand, I do like to keep up with the hot new trends. And if this is how the kiddies are talking now, then I’m down with it. So, I bopped into work today to try out a phew phat phood-related greetings of my own. The phirst — I mean, first — person I ran into was the receptionist. Perfect.
Me: ‘Hey, Picklesocks!‘
Her: ‘Hi, Cha — what did you just call me?‘
Me: ‘Um… nothing. Never mind.‘
Okay — rough start. Hey, I’m new at all this jive talking. I’ll get the hang of it. Next, I ran into my officemate.
Me: ‘‘Sup, Yogurtnose?‘
Him: ‘Excuse me?‘
Me: ‘I said, uh… good morning. That’s all.‘
Him: ‘You’re a douche.‘
So — oh for two. Good thing the guys from the office down the hall walked by soon after. Practice makes perfect, right?
Me: ‘Yo, Cheddarballs! Tacobutt!‘
Them: <* shaking heads and walking away *>
Me: ‘What? Come on! I expect that out of you, Tacobutt. But Cheddarballs, I thought we was tight, brother. Dude.‘
Dammit. Apparently, practice makes preposterous. I’ve been grossly misinformed. But I had one last chance to get it right, when my boss stopped by to say hello.
Boss: ‘Hello, Charlie.‘
Me: ‘Yo, Fudgypants. What’s shaking?‘
Boss: ‘Did you just call me… ‘Fudgypants’?‘
Me: ‘Er… no. No, not if you’re going to take that attitude about it. How about ‘Cabbageface’?‘
Boss: ‘Cabbageface? You sure about that?‘
Me: Not any more, no. Pumpkinhead? Coffeebreath? Tunadrawers? Help me out here.‘
Boss: ‘Charlie, tell me — do you like working here?‘
Me: ‘Well, sure. Up until about thirty seconds ago, anyway.‘
Yeah, it was pretty much downhill from there. Old ‘Tunadrawers’ called me into his office and read me the riot act. So, I’m still employed, but the foody names are on permanent hiatus. I guess I’ll never be one of the cool kids. Fiddlenuts.Permalink | 1 Comment