October 20, 2005

So tuesday night I was at Neds watching the new HBO cop show called the Wire. It's by the same guy who did Homicide: Life on the streets, which is bar-none the best American crime drama ever.

Par for the course, the scripting in the Wire is brilliant but filthy dirty. For example, the scene where a detective is yelling at some "moke" on the phone. He holds the receiver to the crotch of his pants and then returns the receiver to his shoulder and says; "Did you hear that? That was my dick in yer ear!"

Ah ha... for those of us without the above-mentioned organ, it is a bitter pill to swallow not being able to use that epiphet any time in the near future.

Luckily Lauren and I won't let any petty concerns with the appropriateness of our anatomical configurations stop us from making liberal use of the phrase all the way home from Neds, while riding public transportation, loudly, and sometimes (in Laurens case) with an Irish accent, naturally followed by her hideous, but oh so endearing cackle...

Cut to the next morning when I go and work at my temp job in a high-rise, the same office where Ned works all the live-long day. He stops by my cubicle and says;

"Good morning"

"G'morn. Hey Lauren and I had such a great time on the bus home from yoru place last night"

"Yeah, why?"

"We spent like, the whole ride home screaming; do y'hear that? THAT"S MY DICK IN YER EAR! - it was hilarious, Dylan was completely embarrassed."

Ned, speaking rather quietly I notice in retrospect, replied; "That doesn't seem so funny to me.."

"Well I guess you had to be there or something.."

Cut again to two days later and we are outside. Ned's having a smoke. I am standing around being cold, stamping my feet.

"You have some serious voice modulation problems you know."

"What do you mean?"

"Do you even realize that you stood in the middle of the office yesterday and screamed 'DO YOU HEAR THAT? THAT"S MY DICK IN YER EAR! ' "

"Really? was I screaming? !"

"Totally screaming."

Cue still more embarrassed un-voice modulated cries of; "Oh G-d are you serious, oh no... Why don't they just fire me??" My stamping to keep warm turns into a writhing dance of shame and I picture all the "real" office workers shaking their heads over the freakishly unblanaced and/or incredibly gauche temp...

Whatever, I am like, in-technicolour all the time...

But here's the ish, do I go do a masters or do I enroll at finishing school?

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