No, this is not a directive. Do not read the title of this post as "Readers of this blog, please email me some capers." Please. Do not. Although with the number of people who read this blog, I'd be lucky to get one caper. But I digress. Wildly. Inanely.
Here is a recent email exchange:
Sent to me....
"---Women,---
---are like apples---
---on trees. The best ones---
---are at the top of the tree.---
---The boys don't want to reach---
-for the good ones because they're--
-afraid of falling and getting hurt.-
-Instead, they get the rotten apples-
from the ground that arent as good,
but easy. So the apples up top think
something wrong with them when in
-reality they're amazing. They just--
---have to wait for the right man to
--- come along, the one who's-
--- brave enough to---
---climb all---
---the way---
---to the top---
---of the tree.---"
(Okay, so along with this email I get the following note....)
"I believe your the creme de la creme :)"
(Now, if you've made it through that apple/women shit, I congratulate you heartily. I don't know who wrote that thing, but I'm laying odds it was a sad female owner of 472 cats who got delusional. Anyway, here was my response to the "creme" comment...)
"creme de la creme...is that like a REALLY rotten apple?!?! so rotten it's CREAMY?!?! ohmigod! you just called me easy!!! i'm going to get you! i'm going to fall on your head from WAAAAY up here on the top of this FRICKIN' HUGE apple tree!!!! ENJOY BEING UNCONSCIOUS, FUCKWAD!"
3 comments:
By the time I climb to the top of the tree, the top apples have fallen to the ground.
So where do I email my capers? Aren't those olives?
That's quite the wisdom, Moist.
Sid, your comment led me to read about capers on Wikipedia.
I'm not a fan of olives. Can stand black ones on pizza and that's about it.
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