Stuck In Stowe

Greetings!

But let’s get down to business.

If you’re nerdy enough to get my reference to Dr. Jean-Luc Picard and his frequently spoken tag-line, well, then my work is done.

But in the case you don’t “get” jokes, just stop reading now. It’s not frequently that you’ll get such bold advice from a blogumnist.  My ad-revenues highly depend on the sustained peeper-lockage onto this very world wide web page.  So take this permit to wander elsewhere as a welcome reprieve from my usual demands for constant page clickery.

But if you got the lame joke, and you’d like to read more, please click all over this screen and perhaps I can afford to keep running this site, bringing you, my reader continued joy from the type-d word.

Back to the news: F-Brian finally conjured up enough California nuts to axe out my cousin Lauren for a permanent date with living together in boredom and mortgages and arguments about where the “nice” steak knives should go.  It’s the world’s most longest running exercise-in-minutiae-debate.  The old “hey why do you insist on being so much like yourself?” game.  The people version of BOGO.

I’m talking about marriage-hood.

Well, I’ve been there for almost a whole year now, and I have to say that I retroactively agree with my decision, and by extension, F-Brian’s seemingly well-conceived plans.

I did not Freudianally just include the word conceived, it was as they say a planned pun that I thought of ahead of time and decided to use for that explicit purpose.  That’s not the right phrasing for that particular word-play explanation, but it’s late and the wine flows and Lost just ended and I’m more confused about anything than ever.

So as we herald in the death of print journalism, and broadcast television, and the American growth economy, and probably the dollar and the euro and then maybe the very notion of western hegemony, it’s good to see that some things are staying the same.

I remember the first time I met Brian F. Ramish (Ramisch?) just like it was a few years ago or so.  He was drunk.  My uncle Michael McElroy allegedly made him to be so drunk.  In any event, and no matter whom made whom guzzle wine through a trick glass with more wine in it than initially appears to be in it; in the end, we all know him by his middle initial better than we know ourselves, possibly: F.

F is in our minds when we think of Brian F. R.  Just as the circus enters the brain as we think of P.T. Barnum, or Good Times flashes to the noodle while we watch late night TV and we remember the easy credit ripoffs.

We can all kind of agree and say it now while it would have been awkward at any time previous, but Brian F likes to say the word fuck.  I’m sorry, what an embarrassing typo.  Brian LIVES to say the word fuck.  He says it not so much as an exclamation, as a period.  It ends literally every sentence out of his mouth.  It’s harder to type, but for Brian, it’s less hard to say it than it would be to stop breathing air or to stop having awesome facial hair.

It’s a good word, I guess, and you could certainly pick a worse favorite word to spend every other calorie of your existence saying, but it’s a little bit ironic that he would pick a word to favor that least best describes what he’ll be doing as a modern married man.

I’m going to round out this blogumn with another Star Trek joke for all of you folks who hung in there despite nothing but rambling self-congratulatory references and terrible puns: I think it’s great that Lauren decided to let Brian become her number 1.  She could have got all Ferengi about it but hey, she’s a real vulcan lady and it was about time she settled down and didn’t worry so much about the prime directive.  Etc.

This entry was posted on Sunday, May 23rd, 2010 at 11:37 pm and is filed under Uncategorized. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can skip to the end and leave a response. Pinging is currently not allowed.