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Tales of a Post-Grad Nothing

Saturday, February 10, 2007

A Story That Happened Weeks Ago, But I Was Too Busy Doing Very Important Things Like Trading Stocks And Adjusting My Monocle to Write It Down

I am not a mature person. I'm reminded of this any time I hang out with my niece, hear friends discussing the homes they recently purchased, or find myself using the phrase "like butt" to describe a particular taste or smell. This point was truly driven home recently when a friend, specifically a friend who returned from fighting in Iraq and who is currently waiting to try out for the green berets (Note: these green berets, not these), gave me a wrapped package along with a brief explanation, "I saw this and had to buy it for you." When I opened it, I saw the three little words that will make any 25 year old woman with the sensibilities of a 6th grade boy swoon:


Were my programming prowess as proficient as my a(ll?)esome alliteration skillz, the words REMOTE CONTROLLED SNAKE would explode or dance or be on fire. THAT is how exciting this gift is.

I knew that my maturity level hovered somewhere between 6th and 8th grade, but what I didn't know is that my contemporaries have shot so far past me on the grown-up scale, I can't even see them from where I stand. My last name is Couch and I had a friend in high school whose last name was Cima (pronounced See-ma). When he and I started teaming up and cheating kids in card games on the hour-long bus ride to school every morning, we picked up the nicknames Ciman (pronounced See-man...see what I did there?) and Crotch. Whereas I grew into the kind of person you can basically look at and say 'yeah, I can see her having a name like Crotch," Cima(n) grew up to become a 24 year old minister, armed with the love of God, a wife, a baby on the way, a two-year mission trip to Asia ahead of him, and some very mature-looking facial hair to boot, artistically recreated here:

Sidenote: I think that all messengers of The Lord should have to wear top hats like that at a jaunty angle. It's what HE would want.

When I saw my former cohort in crime standing in the pulpit a few weeks ago, I couldn't help but look at him and think of the word semen. Every time I tried to block the word from my head, I would come up with something even worse (e.g. I bet he went to Semen-ary, ad infinitum). In trying to remove the word and all of its groanable puns from my head, I turned to the family sitting next to me and noticed that the 10 year old child was drawing something. I leaned in to see this game in progress:

Filling in the extra S myself and trying desperately not to note that it was the first letter of the very word I was trying to forget, it became painfully clear who my mental contemporaries are.


At 6:31 AM, Anonymous frank said...

so where does a person get ahold of a remote control snake?


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