The genetic marker for acerbic tongue is a dominant trait in my family, but I was a late bloomer. I attended an all-boys parochial high school where my inability to defend myself in verbal repartee made me a favorite target of the “cool” guys. One lovely day during junior year, it all changed.
Our U.S. history teaching was trying to explain that the image of the hippie, while an important part of the collage that was the U.S. in the 60s, was not as dominant a force as many of us had been led to believe. “There is no one image that encapsulates the 60s,” he said, “just as there is no one student who sums up the image of Holy Trinity High School.”
My most despised tormentor, an obnoxious (read: highly popular) ass I referred to as “Ratface”, stood up. “Brother Ken,” he said, “I am the image of Holy Trinity High School.” Collective chuckling and even a smattering of applause from Ratface’s posse followed. And then it happened. I didn’t even know I was saying it until the words were out and gone.
“Well, gee. No wonder all the public school kids think we’re a bunch of insufferable pricks.”
In a high school English class were discussing a short story we had read. I really wish I could remember what the story was… Anyway, the teacher was doing a good job of keeping the discussion moving when we go bogged down. At one point she asks:
Teacher: What is the difference between intent to injure and intent to kill?
Hee. I just remembered when I too discovered my knack for repartee. It was I believe 6th grade, and in the artful style of 11-year-old boys, one of my classmates said to me “You look like my butt.” I shot back “At least I don’t look like your face.” At that moment the room went suddenly silent - as it will - and for that moment I was terrified of a scolding. Instead I got laughter. And the guys in my classes respected me more after that too, even though ultimately I was still the Nerdy Girl.
I was a brand-new intern in July, doing a vascular surgery rotation. In the OR, the attending surgeon began to ask pimping questions, which is basically a test-to-failure process. I answered the first few correctly, but then it came to this:
Attending: What is the name of the vein that runs to the dorsum of the foot?
Me: The deep dorsal vein of the penis. Or is that just me?
I was working for an Atlanta based firm in the 80s. An acquaintance of mine recommended a friend of his named, get this, Rhett Butler. When he said the name, I scoffed, “Oh, is he from Atlanta, too?”
One time I was I was using the restroom at work, and the stall’s door lock didn’t quite work. A co-worker walked in on me doing me business. I was mortified. The only thing I could think to say was; “You’re not my 7:15”.
A group of us watching the news in June. We were speculating on what drugs Michael Jackson took that killed him, and someone suggested OxyCotton.
The next news story was the death of Billy Mays. I had a thought that caused me to laugh uncontrollably for two minutes. When I finally could talk, I shared it with the group: If the OxyCotton doesn’t kill you, I guess the OxyClean will.
Way back in first year law school torts class we were discussing the case of Hackbart vs. Cincinnati Bengals, Inc. and Charles “Booby” Clark, which concerned whether an injury which is inflicted by one professional football player on an opposing player can give rise to liability in tort where the injury was inflicted by the intentional striking of a blow during the game. The professor using the Socratic method asked me, “Suppose you’re playing football and an opposing player came at you with a mace, whirling it above his head. What should happen?”
I said, “Using a mace is at least a 15 yard unnecessary roughness penalty.”
I was being berated by a co-worker in front of others and he ended his diatribe with “You should be hung”. Without missing a beat I replied, “I am.”
At that same job, (backin the 80’s) we had a corporate guy give a speech, going over achievements in other divisions. The corporation was United Technologies which owned Pratt & Whitney Engines, Otis Elevators, Norden Radar Systems and others. There’s a hundred people jammed in this room. I’m near the back with a bunch of mid-line managers. The guy starts, “Take Pratt and Whitney…they’re doing major things with the Air Force. Take Otis…” I blurt out “My man!”
You could hear the laughter slowly ripple all the way to the front. I though I was going to get fired. But even the speaker chuckled.
Also, out driving with my friend, his girlfriend, and another girl (friend of the girlfriend). Somehow the girls start talking about cocks. The friend of the girlfriend asks my friend, “So, how big are you”. Sheepishly he says, “Not so big, I suffer from the Irish curse”. This gets a laugh (especially from the girlfriend). They she says to me, “What about you, Bob?”. I pause, and then say “Well, I suffer from the black curse.” The girls howl! So did my buddy.
I was working as a TV reporter, and had labels on the my equipment with my first name on it. A print photographer asked my why I had named the tripod after myself. I said “Hey, three legs, same length. Seemed like the right name.”
My boss and some others in the office were talking about Big Love, the HBO show about a polygamist and his three wives, when I cruised past on my way to the bathroom. I heard the guys talking about how great it would be to have three wives. As I walked out the door, I said, “I’ve got my hands full keeping one woman disappointed.”
^Reminds me of the time we were discussing a threeway. My friend asked what made me think I could satisfy two women. Of course, my reply was that satisfying the women was not on my list of things to do.
Seems like a lot of big dick lines in this thread, so I’ll throw this in (though it wasn’t really mine):
I was at an outdoor Grateful Dead show in Oregon back in the late 80’s with a bunch of friends. We were all out in the parking lot waiting for the time to go into the stadium, and of course many different things were being ingested, including beer. My buddy George and I both had to pee at the same time so off we go to the porta-potties and get in line. There were maybe 15 or 20 porta-potties lined up in this location.
Once we were at the front of the line, by chance, the next two porta-potties to become free were right next to each other. We each picked one and went in. I unzipped and started to pee when I heard George, next door, call out, “Jesus! This water is cold!” Of course, being a guy, I am obliged to answer, “Yeah! And DEEP too!” There was a slight pause and some guy in another porta-pottie yells out, “And the bottom’s sandy!!”
Dozens of messed up hippies laughing HARD for several minutes. I had a hard time not spraying urine all over from laughter.
My brother, at his wedding reception, in response to his new father-in-law’s joking complaints about how much money the occasion had cost him: “Bob, I’m only going to get to do this two or three more times in my life. I want it to be special.”
I know this thread is meant for first-person experiences, and while I could have lied and claimed it as my own, I can never match my brother for off-the-cuff remarks like that.
Maybe 15 years ago, my dad had been diagnosed with very early stage prostate cancer, and was unsure what course of treatment to pursue (or none at all). He got second and third and fourth opinions, read journal articles, and saw specialists all over the damn place.
I finally asked him when he was just going to make a decision about what to do, if anything. He said he knew he had to make the call at some point, because he felt like it was really hanging over him.
I asked him, “isn’t it actually hanging under you?”
Luckily Dad has a sense of humor.
(He eventually had surgery and has been fine ever since. But because prostate cancer had killed my uncle by marriage, who was practically like my dad’s brother, he was really stressing.)
