The good folks at the leasing office–you know, the ones who neglected to tell me that 85% of my windows were fused shut–recently mailed a brochure entitled “Protect Your Family from Lead in Your Home.”
I wasn’t expecting anything revolutionary from the dirty little pamphlet, but I was proven incorrect as soon as I laid eyes on Page 2. Nestled in the very first paragraph was sage advice: don’t eat paint chips. I promptly blacked out.
When I came to, an epiphany settled into me like a fat woman into a petite dress.
“I’ve stumbled upon a linguistic treasure!” I shouted, fist pumping triumphantly in the air.
I promptly blacked out again.
I regained enough consciousness, gentle reader, to scrawl down a new phrase for your convenience. Are you ready?
“Damn paint chips!”
This handy little phrase should serve as an endearing replacement for the antiquated “my bad” that rose in popularity in the late 90s. To wit:
[Case 1]
“Did you lose your cellphone again?”
“Damn paint chips!”
[Case 2]
“You insensitive bastard! How could you forget our anniversary?”
“Damn paint chips!”
[Case 3]
“Don’t you even remember what a good rant looked like?”
“Damn paint chips!”
Sir Dippenschitzen took the limo into the Spiffy Lube today, forcing your beloved CEO to savor a little public transportation. With a song on my lips (I’d overseen a successful hostile takeover today–of a small country) and an aluminum-core bat at my side (in case I wanted to make public transportation much, much more private), I strolled over and waited a good ten minutes at the bus stop.
A very old and very short bus pulled up, and when I got on I saw that I was the only passenger. As soon as I took a front row seat on the Gusbus, the driver turned around, hacked violently into my face, and rasped, “Where do you want to go?”
I began to answer, but the dirty ol’ codger flashed a sly, toothless grin and cut me off.
“I just remembered, sonny, that I don’t really care where you want to go. I’m going to drive wherever the hell I want,” he coughed out.
“Why, you impudent little bastard!” I cried, reaching for my trusty sidearm. “This’ll make you behave.”
“Ha! Too late for you, sonny,” he laughed villainously. “I already had a whole gallon of espresso today. Not only can I–cough, cough–move fast enough to avoid your stupid Cane, but if you piss me off, I’ll just go ahead and piss all over you.”
“Oh,” I said. I knew I was defeated, perhaps only temporarily, but defeated nonetheless. Besides, I was wearing two Armani suits and Armani boxers and Armani socks.
He pointed an old, wrinkly finger at the Skyscraper as we pulled away.
“What happened over there?” he asked. “Didn’t you used to remodel every goddamn day?”
“Yes,” I said, “yes I did.” This is the part where I sigh and the camera zooms all the way into my pupil, setting the stage for a poorly directed flashback.
And this is also when, gentle reader, I point out that this has been a rather long and fictionalized way of promising I’ll update more frequently than, say, every other Sunday.
I’m trying to secure funding, gentle reader, so that I can purchase Eugene Levy’s eyebrows. There’s just something otherworldly about them. Don’t know if the Financial Department will approve, of course, but–oh, wait. I am the Financial Department. Stamp.