Me: I lost my voice.
Biffle: You must have hated that. You love the sound of your own voice.
Me: I KNOW!
Biffle and I have an understanding. I talk at him and he regards me with the mild amusement reserved for one watching a squirrel eat french fries.
When we lived together, we spent entire hours doing this but now that I live 1000 miles away and he’s firmly entrenched in law school — it’s a little tougher to do.
Enter the magic of email.
I send him long, rambling discourses on everything ranging from the American political process to sandwiches to pop culture…and he sends me stuff like this:
(The name of this move has to be the BAM-boo. It just has to be)
So, for no other reason than my amusement, here are some out-of-context highlights from emails I’ve sent him over the past couple of months:
- You think when Jigga says, “Can’t leave rap alone/The game needs me” – he’s talking about the rap game or the rapper, The Game?
- He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named becomes governor and starts Avada Kevadra-ing Muggles. Oh God, I’ve said too much…
- Imagine if a burrito and a sandwich engaged in unprotected coitus in the backseat of a 1985 Toyota pick-up truck while listening to Los Lobos. The result of that tryst would be a torta.
- You look like a Germanic giraffe – it’s all angles and points and severity.
- We can do cool Miami shit like listen to Pitbull, murder bad guys (they do it in Dexter) and eat ALL the yuca frita!
- I think I might have to sacrifice a goat to some cloven-hooved dark god.
- NO! You cannot Hammertime. It can be Hammertime and you can do the Hammertime dance but one cannot Hammertime in and of itself. It’s like ballet, You cannot ballet – you can perform it, you can practice it, you can fail spectacularly at it but you cannot BE it. Sorry, Big Sean. Don’t be stupid.
- I like to imagine that I’m a Mexican revolutionary sometimes. Cute little cotton blouse, bad-ass brown leather boots, a horsie named Axel Foley.”
- Nachos supersede ALL. Dead, alive, in some sort of quasi zombie half-life — it matters not when it comes to nachos.
- …Except for Mom who has THREE smallpox scars. I swear, they had inoculation monkeys in India or something. Really incompetent ones.
- I cursed a lot in this email. Like A LOT.