When I was a kid, a neighborhood boy came to the door and asked me if I’d seen Rambo. This was when the movies were current, so I started explaining that I’d seen part of one at a party, but I couldn’t remember if it was the original or part II…he interrupted me to explain he meant his dog, Rambo. He’d run away and he was looking for him.
Looking back now, I don’t think it was that bad, but I felt absolutely humiliated for years about that.
LOL!
At the recommendation of a friend, I applied for an IT support position at the main office of the organization he worked for. He hadn’t been too happy with the computer support he got from the main office, I answered a lot of his questions better than they did.
During the interview I blurted out “Yeah, (my friend) told me you guys don’t know what you’re doing up here.” And I wasn’t saying it in a joking way either. I bet his support was even worse after that.
My uncle, on my mom’s side of the family, used to have a basset hound named Fred. Sweet dog, but he had some sort of skin condition or something that made him stink something awful. On my dad’s side of the family, I also had a very elderly great-uncle named Fred. Uncle Fred lived pretty far away, and I seldom saw him. Fred the Dog lived pretty close, and my parents used to dog sit him all the time.
So, one day, I’m in the car with my dad, and he says, “Fred died yesterday.”
I replied, “Aw, that’s a shame. Hopefully, the next one they get won’t smell so bad.”
It was, of course, Uncle Fred who had died, not Fred the Dog.
This happened today, so I’ll share it even though it was just me being stupid in my head instead of stupid outloud. (For once.)
I went to Quiznos for lunch and popped a straw in my drink on the way out the door. I took a sip and got that air-suck that indicates there’s a hole or break in the straw, so I turned right around and went back in. As I headed over to the drink station the guy at the counter looked at me inquiringly, so I said, “There’s a hole in the straw,” and he replied, jokingly, “There should be two.”
I swear, it took me two hours sitting at my desk to figure out what the hell he was talking about, why I would want a straw with two holes in it.
I just had one…
The on-line “teaser” headline was “Can your car hit a million…experts say most rides can actiually do it, but only if…”
First thought through my head was “Wow, that’s fast” and I eagerly started to click… then I noticed the picture of the odometer and the title subtitle “5 rules of longevity”.
So I guess I won’t be taking my Civic on any interstellar trips soon, oh well.
This happened a couple years ago.
My wife of twenty-plus years showed me a dress in a catalog commenting about how pretty she thought it was and seeming to want my concurrence.
I replied, (stupidly) “Y’know, it ain’t gonna look like that on you.”
Brain said “ow ow ow ow ow…” :smack::smack::smack:
In my defense, the model in the catalog was about a size 6 and my wife, well… isn’t.
I wished my Jewish neighbor a Happy Easter a few weeks ago.
Still another one…
A smidgen of advice to all the fellows out there:
If your girlfriend asks you to rate her 1-10 on how well she preforms, uh, ‘oral favors’, do not under any circumstances answer anything besides 10.
The whole total honesty thing in relationships is a load of poppycock. I thought she’d be happy with “I dunno, 7 maybe?”. I mean, that’s above average, right?
She wasn’t.
This is something that JUST happened.
I have bought a new camera, and I’m thinking of places to go to, to try it out in different situations. So I thought, “Hmmm, I haven’t been to the zoo in many years.” Now, the last time I went to a zoo, I was living in NYC, and took the subway to the Bronx Zoo. So I’m sitting here thinking what train I have to take to get to the zoo. It took me several seconds to realize I’m no longer living in New York, there’s no subway here, and I can now just get into the car and drive to the zoo. :smack:
I was watching a movie with my wife, where Graham Greene had a part.
I said: “That’s Graham Greene. He’s great… but he always seems to play the Indian,” I added as if disapproving.
I had the feeling there was something wrong with my information during the following uncomfortable silence, until my wife burst out with laughter. Then I got it. “Yeah, yeah…”
Graham Green is of course “Indian” (native Canadian), which I was very well aware of.
Here’s mine, from a long time ago; I will start by saying in my own defense that I was, well, frying at the moment, on what I’d taken as an appropriate-sized dose of blotter acid for going to an art museum on.
This was when the traveling Anxious Visionsexhibition (all about Surrealism and its historical context) was on display at whatever the big art museum in Berkeley is called. As mentioned above, I had taken a single 1980s-strength hit of LSD as an enhancement to my art appreciation, and it was doing its job almost unnervingly well until a little old lady (I’m not stereotyping here, the elderly woman’s head came up to my shoulder at most) approached and asked me what time it was.
I do not wear a watch. Thus, I told her the truth – I had no idea of the time.
A few minutes later I saw a wall clock on the far side of the room. Taking note of the time it showed, I walked around the area until I found the small and venerable female individual who’d spoken to me earlier.
“Ma’am?” I said. “There’s, uhhh, there’s a clock over there!”
She looked at me with a mixture of confusion and discomfort and very quickly moved from my presence; before the statement had entirely left my mouth, I realized how off-the-wall I sounded, and also that my museum dose was* just a wee bit more potent *than I thought it was when I took it.
I don’t think that’s such a stupid thing to say. He may be of native Canadian descent, but he’s also an actor, and there’s no reason he shouldn’t play the role of some newspaper reporter or taxi driver or small-town barber. Yes, he always *does *seem to play the Indian, and he should be getting hired for his talent, not specifically for his race.
lol, I giggled at that
This happened Thursday. Last day of the month, and we were in a hellacious hurry to get all the necessary mailings put together and in the mailbox so they’d be postmarked in April instead of May. (Why is boring so I won’t go into it. Just accept it was VERY important to our boss.)
Finally everything was ready at about 4:45 pm, so I scooped up the mail tray and hurried out – there’s a mailbox about 50 yards down the street, and I knew the last scheduled pickup was at 5, so we were fine.
Or would have been fine. I exited the back door of the building, walked across the parking lot…and proceeded to flip open the DUMPSTER and empty the tray into it.
There are not enough of these :smack: in the universe to cover how I felt starting a microsecond after I tipped the tray.
Of course the dumpster had been emptied the day before, so the mail ended up on the floor of it. Yes, sitting in the puddles and smears of gooey crap. 
Fortunately there was a lawn crew working nearby. An athletic college age guy volunteered to dive in for me after I told them of what brain dead me had down. The letters had been bundled, so only the outermost letter on one side of each bundle got really dirty. I just brushed them off the best I could and put them in the mail box. Hopefully the recipients will blame the Post Office. (Sorry PO people.)
And, yes, my gallant dumpster diver got a BIG thank you tip.
I think he played an NYC detective in the third Die Hard movie.
Topologically, there’s only one hole. I wouldn’t want a straw with two holes in it, either.
Yeah, but who wants to listen to topologists? They can’t even tell the damn difference between a donut and a coffee cup.
Freshman year, standing next to my locker talking to a friend, another guy walks up and says, “You guys hear what happened to [classmate] Russell?”
Me (sarcastically): He died.
Him: So you heard. Car accident.
30 years later I still don’t know why I would have thought that was a funny thing to say.
Not just topologically, actually. A straw has two openings, and you need two openings to make one hole.
When we walk around our neighborhood here in Portland, OR, we play a game where if you see a cat, you have to be the first to identify it by species or color, and you get a point. Most points by the time you get to your destination wins.
As we rounded a corner, there was a large black cat in an open doorway of a house, and in my enthusiasm to “call it” I pointed and loudly and excitedly shouted “BLACK!!!”
Seconds later I noticed the four African Americans sitting on their porch, looking at me like I was a lunatic.
I don’t think any amount of explaining would’ve helped that situation.