Here’s an excerpt from a conversation I had today with a neighbor of mine, who for some ungodly reason was mowing his lawn in 92-degree heat:
Me: “Hot enough for you out here?”
Neighbor (cutting his engine): “What’s that?”
Me: “I say, is it hot enough for ya’ today?”
Neighbor (wiping brow with forearm): “You bet. ‘s hotter’n a witch’s tit, in fact. Ain’t that what they say? — hotter than a witch’s tit…?”
Me (rubbing my head): “Hmmm, I don’t know… Witch’s tits are hot are they?”
Neighbor (after a considered pause): “Well. They’re, like, in league with Satan, right? Witches, I mean? I suspect their tits’d be too, then.”
Me: “Yeah, I guess you’re right… Man, I bet ol’ Satan can scorch a nipple or two, can’t he…?”
Neighbor: “Well, I’d hate to be a witch, if that’s what you’re askin’…”
Your neighbor needs to start his own weblog.
“I suspect their tits’d be too, then.” That’s fantastic.
Now, you live in Colorado, right? You guys are talking like people I know from ‘Bama.
It’s hard to top that one for sheer inanity, but I think I have a competitive entry. Overheard at my local Barnes & Noble this weekend, boy attempting to impress girl:
‘I just found out a relative of mine came over on the Mayflower with Christopher Columbus. And I never used to be into Christopher Columbus.’
That’s good stuff, Melissa.
Gosh, Jeff, I didn’t know YOU were my neighbor! (Actually, witch mammalia [especially those contained by brass brassiers] and well-digger’s glutes are both icy cold–which discounts the theory that this conversation happened within my beloved state. We’uns know better.)
I thought so too, Possum. But my neighbor, he seemed so <i>sold</i> on his own description.
I tell ya, it was infectious.