Me: I can’t find Sin City.
Wife (pointing towards information desk computers): Did you check the kiosk?
Me: . . . I no longer like that word.
Wife: You liked it last week.
Me: Things change.
Coworker (on other side of cubical wall): Who put this here?
Me: What, where?
Coworker (supposedly pointing): This!
Me: I have no idea what you are talking about.
Coworker (now audibly shaking some papers): This!
Me: Damn you and your indefinite pronouns.
Coworker (After I discussed vodka filtration): I’ll have to tell my son. You sure know a lot about this stuff, you surprise me with new information everyday.
Me: I did go to college.
Coworker: I went to college too, and I didn’t learn so much about drinking.
Me: You didn’t go to Northern. People said all we had were bars and snow, which left heavy drinking and skiing as the only two real recreational options. And I’m afraid of heights, so . . .
Wife: I love you.
Me: I love you too. (feigning exasperation) I have to say that all the time. I think I’ll just make a sign, like Wile E. Coyote, and hold it up when necessary.
Wife: Jerk. Why don’t you just get it tattooed on your forehead so you don’t have to go through the trouble of lifting the sign? ‘I love you . . . (pause) Autumn.’”
Me: Nah, too permanent. Maybe I could get ‘I love you’ tattooed and then get a little whiteboard installed after that. ‘I love you blank,’ because, hey, you never know.
<punched in arm>
(Wherein I get one-upped)
Coworker (looking at photos of high school jocks): Why is it that they never smile? What is this pose called, looking angry with the chin out?
Me: It’s called “Macho Posturing.”
Coworker: Why can’t they smile?
Me: Because every time you smile your testicles shrink. Medical fact.
Coworker: It’s like ‘Hey, look up my nose: no brain!’