Midday, downtown, a woman is walking down the street. A man in a 1980s Cadillac drives up slowly, pulls over and yells to the woman in a thick Russian accent, “That looks like the ass of my ex-wife. Ex-wife, get in the car.” She smiles, rolls her eyes, gets in the car.
An office-wide e-mail that was just sent out:
Good afternoon, there was a package left in the outgoing mail bin on the 15th floor, yesterday 7/08/03. Additional information is needed in order to ship this package. Please see the mailroom manager for additional information.
recipients name: Gandhi M
destination: India
They evidently need the recipient’s last name. If it was “Zsa Zsa, Malibu,” I could understand.
When rummaging through a drawer I came across this gift a previous neighbor left on my car window. For all these months I’ve been trying to figure out what the torn part said. “There is no food?” “There is nothing more absurd?” Or maybe, “There is no extra space behind my big fucking SUV for your little economical turd.”
Her: I hope I didn’t embarrass Matt [by giving him a spontaneous lapdance in front of 25 coworkers and their signficant others at a company dinner party]. I think I’m in trouble with my husband—he doesn’t know Matt’s gay.
Him: Oh, really? Matt’s comment about how could you think about wearing white shoes before Memorial Day didn’t tip him off?