There Are Stupid Questions
Someone the other day said to me, “You should write another blog post.” Technically that’s not a question. Technically.
They say you should be careful what you wish for. At least that’s what my parents told me.
Hang on. Please. We’re not accepting questions till the end. Please let me finish. You see, I know a thing or two about stupid questions. I used to ask them. A lot.
I did it on purpose. Ain’t I a stinker?
May the odds be never in your favor
I don’t think the odds are in his “favor.”
May the odds be ever in your favor. Yes, with added emphasis on the “favor.” As in someone level-jumping your relationship and asking for one.
Fast-forward to me at The Reaping: “I volunteer! I volunteer! Pick me! Pick me! Anything is better than this bullshit.”
Unbeknownst to everyone I had previously and surreptitiously taped my winning ticket to the bottom of the fishbowl. They knew how to handle it from there. They’re smooth that way…
But then I woke up and it was too late. I had already foolishly replied, “Yeah, I’ll do you that favor.”
This is where the fun begins.
During the act of accepting the favor request I added, “I’ll do ya the solid. All I ask is that you call before stopping by and never call or stop by before seven in the morning. That’s all I ask of you.” (I sang the last part, again, for added emphasis.)
“No problem, no problem!” I was assured.
Surprise twist, though. Despite being such an exceedingly simple request it turned out to be a big problem.
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