Me: You are so middle-of-the-road, you make the people who paint the lines down the middle of the road, look not-middle-of-the-road.
Him: Yes, but have you ever noticed that those lines in the road are always a little bit to one side or the other?
Me: Yes, they are always to the left of me.
Me: Why is everybody (in the mall) closing up shop? It’s only five p.m.
Him: Well, it’s Sunday.
Me: Oh, sure. God forbid anybody should work on a Sunday.
I once drove three hours to visit my friends, the morning after a dinner of jalapeno-fraught psuedo-Mexican cuisine. Arriving at their house, I immediately excused myself to their bathroom. Upon finishing, I came out and asked, “Hey, do you remember that poem from college, that ends ‘and what rough Beast, it’s hour come ’round at last, slouches it’s way towards Bethlehem to be born?'”
“Sure,” was the quick reply (they are both Masters of Oxford and may be relied upon to know pretty much anything I don’t already). “‘The Second Coming’, by William Butler Yeats. Why?”
“Because, ” I replied. “I think that in about ten minutes, the local sewage department is going to find out.”