Unbelievably, I’ve had this augument with a GF!
possibly not a great reflection on my sexual prowess
Her evidence:-
[ul]
I had a cat
I like short hair on women
I prefer the smaller “continental” breast to the traditional “Full English” Jug
[/ul]
This is the perennial argument in my family. Now it’s mostly a joke, but when we were younger, we were DEAD SERIOUS about it.
Some of you may know a Jewish food, a noodle pudding with lots of oil. Spelled “kugel”, I will admit.
But my mother’s side of the family is from a different area in Europe than my father’s side. My gradmother (who makes the “kugel”, 95% of the time) and grandfather, and mother, pronounce it “kiggle”. My dad pronounces it “kugel”. I went with the majority and the maker of the delicious stuff, my brother, to be contrary, went with dad.
I swear to you, we’ve been arguing this for at least 15 years. Everyone gets involved, as it happens at Rosh Hashanah EVERY SINGLE YEAR.
And it’s kiggle.
Check, check check. I should probably let my wife know I am with you on the yellow brick road to gaydom.
I’m in this crowd, too. I’m a firm believer that anything more than a handful’s a waste.
Oh, and rockle, I’d try that, if my little brother wasn’t a huge Kevin Smith fan. He’d catch the reference.
Shirley, I keep asking my little brother if I have to do his girlfriend in front of him to prove that I’m straight.
It’s a cold Saturday December Morn in Northeast Pennsylvania, and I plod down to the kitchen at the crack of 11AM, across the cold linoleum to the bead drawer for some needed breakfast (Toast and loads of butter).
Lo and behold, in the drawer is a lone English muffin that must have squirreled out of its package when someone grabbed it.
I cackled with glee as this was, indeed, gold amongst the coal.
In retrospect, the setup of our kitchen was odd. The bread drawer and the toaster were right next to one another (The toaster atop the counter above the bread drawer). The silverware, however, was ** WAY OVER THERE ** on the other side of the kitchen (Across that cold surface).
As if things were not already going my way, a clean-enough looking knife is in front of the toaster. I snatch the knife and I quickly start to open my muffin for its toasting.
Now, it’s 1986 – I’m 16 then. I’m the 4th of 5 boys, and my Dad has grown both weary and suspect of me (I have done nothing more than any 16 year old boy had done, but I was a hyperactive kid, so it amplified). In Short: Papa had a short fuse when it came to me.
I feel it; a presence. And I can feel it breathing on my shoulder. I know the feeling.
“Morning Dad”
After an uncomfortable silence, he finally says “What are you doing?”
“Having an English Muffin,” I said, with what I’m sure was sarcasm dripping from me as it was readily obvious what I was doing.
Another pause (Perhaps he was counting to ten).
“It clearly states ‘fork split’ on the package,” he states.
“Well, yeah, but this knife looks clean enough.”
Now with gritting teeth he repeats “It Clearly States ‘Fork Split’.”
“I know dad, but the fork’s over there, and the floor is cold and…”
Eruption.
"IT SAYS ‘FORK SPLIT’! WHY DO YOU HAVE TO REBEL AGAINST EVERYTHING!!?"
“Rebel? It’s a God Damn English muffin!” I yell back at him.
The fight ensues, with lots of screaming about various things. But it was ended with my father snatching the English muffin, crushing it in his hands and his whipping it against the wall: Nooks and crannies went everywhere.
My booty. My precious, precious booty gone.
The day went on without incident. At dinner, however, as two of my brothers and I sat at the table with mom and dad, dad decided to bring this all up again. He had even gone as far as to have dug the package from the garbage to show us the ‘Fork Split’ decree. All of us agreed my father was out of his mind, which just got him really angry all over again.
“I expected the boys to take his side, but you, Carol!?” he said with disdain towards my mom.
We laugh about it now, and it comes up every time and English muffin is at a communal meal. But dad still insists he was right, and why would I use a knife when they tell me to use a fork.
corrections:
Near the top:
BREAD drawer. Not BEAD drawer.
And near the bottom:
AN English Muffin, not AND English Muffin.
My Husband and I argue over whether or not I am right. It doesn’t matter WHAT I was right about, but I have an average of being right about trivia, previous events, etc. of about 98%. So we “discuss” a point of trivia, I then say well you know I’m almost always right and … then we argue about it for the next hour. Not the trivia, but whether or not I am right.
Stupid, eh?:rolleyes:
Second what Doc said about math in your head…doing it from the left first gives you more significant figures first, which are easier to remember than the pesky ones column. But by hand, I do it right side first.
Stupidest family argument: in the mid-80s, there was a jazz-rockish song with an interlude that sounded vaguely tribal or aboriginal (lyrics went something along the lines of “i love the nightlife”) My brother insisted that the yelling was actually the Australian national anthem. Long discussion ensued.
I knew that he was wrong, and that furthermore, he was just jerking me around. But later, he kept insisting that, yes, the tribal rhythm wasn’t the Australian national anthem, but that I thought he thought it was. This went on for longer than the original discussion. :rolleyes:
Oh. My wife and I argured over the existance of Esperanto the other night.
She said something crazy, and I asked her if she was speaking Esperanto. She said “What the hell is Esperanto”. I told her it was a language developed by some guy years ago. It was a made up language like Ebonics or Klingon. She told me I was crazy. I told her William Shatner was in a film that was only Esperanto.
She thought I was making it up.
Seriously. This fight lasted fro two days until I remembered to hop online to get the data.
grrr…
AAAAAAAHAHAHAHA! We do the exact same thing, but then it ends up with him saying “You’re always against me!” and then we have to fight about that: me going “No I’m not, what about the time…” and him going “Yeah, but what about blah, blah and blah!” Etc, etc, etc.
This is from a guy who supposedly pushed a date out of a moving car because they had a fight about which was the greater ocean. Not greater as in size, depth, or volume. Greater as in all-around coolest, most “happening” ocean.
Mr. Bawlmer and I have an ongoing debate about when our first date was. I say it was October 1st, the day after I’d finally given him my number after several months of friendly chatting/flirting. He called me a little after noon and we arranged to meet for lunch, then he accompanied me on an errand where, lucky man, he got to carry some heavy boxes for me. We had a lovely time and the next day, by email, we decided to go out that weekend for dinner and a movie. That went so well that we are now married. Yay, us!
He INSISTS that the dinner/movie date was our first date because in his words, “I didn’t know the lunch thing was a date while it was happening.” My argument is that his lack of awareness doesn’t make it not a date. He even paid for my lunch! And carried heavy boxes! It’s the Argument That Wouldn’t Die, even though everyone we argue in front of agrees with me.
We also have the standard dorky debates about comic book physics and the legal system as it exists in Hazzard County. Nerds of a feather, I tell ya.
<jaw drops to desk> Wow. I was going to tell a story about arguments around my grandfather’s funeral, but your argument takes the cake.
I’m so sorry for your loss.
Where did the happy Jewish guy come from?
When a happy Jewish woman meets a happy Jewish man and they like each other a whole lot…
Too many stupid arguments, I can’t single one out…
Just wanted to update everyone and let you know that TWICE in the month of August, my company provided ice cream for all the employees, and BOTH TIMES it was Baskin Robbins. So there.
Heh. Last weekend, Skip took me to a frozen custard place in the town where he works.
It was my first time there, and he asked how I liked it.
“It’s good,” I said . . .
. . . and then added, “But it’s no Baskin Robbins.” 
Shoulda seen the look on his face–you’d have thought I’d just stabbed him in the chest with a little pink plastic spoon. 
em: Good one. Two thumbs up.
Oh, Skip hates me to encourage you, doesn’t he?
Nah. Em needs a friend in her twisted little world. It gets lonely there, I hear.
When I was a teen, I got involved in a stupid non-verbal argument/struggle between my dad and my mum.
What happened was this: I worked for my mum in her pottery studio. Frequently, she needed tools. Now, although my dad & mom bought tools together, and the tools were stored in the basement in the studio, my dad had a fetish for locking them up - they were always kept in a locked closet.
Naturally, my mum could use any tool she wanted - they were half hers. But my dad had to be present, to unlock the closet for her. She didn’t get a key!
Naturally, when you need tools, he is not always around.
So, my mom instructed me to break into the closet - but only in a way my dad wouldn’t find out.
I figured out that it was possible to unscrew the hasp of the lock, and get into the closet this way - screwing it back on when we were done. This worked for months.
Eventually, my dad got wise - we had become careless, and had not noticed that constant re-screwing had stripped the screw heads.
Of course, being my family (did I say we were all nuts?) nothing was said. Rather, one day we went to get the tools as usual - only to find that my dad had replaced the screws with bolts (we later discovered that the nuts inside the closet were epoxied!).
I then figured out that it was possible to unscrew the hinges of the closet door, and get the tools this way. We even mixed up some enamel paint, specifically to re-paint the screwheads so that our tampering was not visible …
SKIP!! You two have been married less than 2 months. You are not allowed to be that snide about your wife till…hm… You are NEVER allowed to be that snide about your wife.