Articles in “Strange Conversations”

ME: Okay, is everything packed up and ready?
NICK: Yep. We just need to get a green bag, then I can put in everything I’ve got out.
ME: So it’s not all packed up and ready.
NICK: Well, no.
ME: So do it now!
NICK: But I just need to hit a button!

ME: You’re Rogue Leader?

NICK: I am now!

ME: Did you promote yourself?

NICK: Well, I wanted to be in Rogue Squadron.

ME: Why?

NICK: Because that’s Wedge’s squadron after Star Wars.

ME: Yeah, if in doubt, shadow Wedge. You know he ain’t going down.

NICK: Exactly. Actually, he’s Rogue Leader. So, I’m covered both ways.

ME: Even after he totally wimped out of the attack on the original Death Star? They still promoted him? I suppose there was a lack of pilots after that debacle.

NICK: Survivors get the glory. Ones who don’t walk straight into Imperial fire are few and far between.

ME: Which surprises me, given that stormtroopers are notoriously lousy shots.

NICK: Tie Fighter pilots have much better aim.

ME: True. I guess they’re cloned from a batch with better hand-eye coordination.

NICK: The main problem for them is that Han and Luke are much better pilots.

ME: Maybe they switched batches? Maybe the stormtroopers are all excellent pilots?

NICK: I think we’re going to have to delve into the tie-in novels for more information.

ME: Well, you know how it is. You have these two billion clones, and you can’t tell the Emperor that you’re pretty sure you started labelling them the wrong colours halfway through. Next thing you know, your soldiers can’t shoot and your pilots can’t fly. It’s the only explanation that makes sense.

Trying to convince Nick that he really needs to put a shirt on before we go to the shops.

ME: Because while I can get away with it with a toddler, I really think with you being 33 . . .
(Long pause)
ME: . . . tomorrow.
NICK: I was going to say.
ME: It’s tomorrow, for goodness’ sake!
NICK: Stop stealing my youth!

Believe it or not, this conversation (over IM) started when Nick revealed he hadn’t told me that he already knew about the man who tried to pay his bills with a picture of a spider.

ME: Oh. Consider my bubble burst.

NICK: Oh! Sorry!

ME: All the joy is gone from life.

NICK: Bloody hell, that was easy. I wasn’t even trying.

ME: The world is turning gray around me . . .

NICK: Is it getting cold? So cold?

ME: Why’s everything going fuzzy? Oh, wait, I’m listening to Grant Lee Buffalo.

NICK: Ah! Well, there you go.

ME: You’re not my boyfriend! Who’s using your computer? I mean, his computer.

NICK: Sorry? What have I done? OMG?! Bananas!

ME: My own boyfriend wouldn’t taunt me like that. I know it for sure. He’s a gentle soul.

NICK: That’s true. Darn it, foiled again!

ME: Well, who are you, then?

NICK: I am the Dread Pirate Roberts.

ME: Which one?

NICK: Not the latest one. One of the earlier, less English ones.

ME: The latest one is Inigo Montoya.

NICK: Hmm. Not the one before last either, then.

ME: So not Inigo Montoya and not Westley?

NICK: Nope. The one before the one before the one before last.

ME: Hang on. How did the Dread Pirate Roberts get on my boyfriend’s Gmail account?

NICK: I scuttled his ship and took his passwords. He’s my cabin boy now. I shall probably kill him in the morning.

ME: He had a ship? He told me he was a web designer!

NICK: He told me he ran away to sea to find you a nice book to read.

ME: That doesn’t sound like him, at all.

NICK: I could tell he was lying. But about what, I could not tell.

ME: Are you sure that’s my boyfriend you’ve got as a cabin boy?

NICK: He is bald and wears glasses.

ME: So are many men who are replete with testosterone. Except for the glasses.

NICK: He said something about repleteness just before I defeated him in a duel.

ME: Oh. That’s definitely my boyfriend, then. Is he coming back for his birthday party?

NICK: I tire swiftly of him but his foolishness has put me out of the mood for killing. I shall release him to you this afternoon.

ME: Hang on—I know you! You’re Atlas! Atlas pretending to be Dread Pirate Roberts! Oh, the layers upon layers.

NICK: My cunning but overly complex plan is revealed! I must away with me to my space castle.

ME: Well, can you drop him off at Indooroopilly, if you’ve got your space castle? It saves me picking him up from work.

NICK: This baby doesn’t do reverse. Or left turns.

ME: Is a giant circuit of the Earth out of the question? He doesn’t have to be there for a couple of hours.

NICK: Can’t talk; just been boarded by Space Pirate Harlock.

ME: Right—watch out for the giant switchblade he keeps in the prow of his ship.

NICK: Yes, that did a number on my space-shrubbery.

WII FIT BALANCE BOARD: Good morning! Have you had your breakfast yet? Oh, Nick’s birthday is coming up, isn’t it? Have you given any thought to presents? Or maybe throwing him a surprise party?

And I thought my old TiVo’s habit of secretly recording evangelical television made it the most passive-aggressive piece of household equipment I’d ever owned . . .

While discussing my love for Method cleaning products and, particularly, their delicious-smelling wood polish:

ME: Man, the living room really does smell like warm heaven.
NICK: Well, that’s why there are so many Methodists.

In which Nick shows me a picture of the Doctor’s new companion Karen Gillan in a policeman’s uniform complete with miniskirt:

ME: Nicholas!
NICK: What? It’s a Sensorite belt!
ME: You were not looking at her belt.
(Pause)
NICK: That is a very short skirt.

For the record, she was also wearing stockings with seams.

(For the complete joke, see point six in Lawrence Miles’s Thirteen Cheering Thoughts for 2010, in the sidebar to his blog. But be warned: the first point is a bit of a spoiler if you haven’t yet seen the Doctor Who season five finale “End of Time.”)

NICK: My weight comes off more easily because I am replete with testosterone.
ME: You always say that.
NICK: It’s true!
ME: You are obsessed with your testosterone.
NICK: It’s why I am bald!
ME: So you keep saying. It’s your standard excuse.
NICK: It’s not an excuse! It’s true!
ME: “I can’t put down the toilet seat, I am replete with testosterone!” “I can’t take out the rubbish, I am replete with testosterone!” “I wasn’t listening to what you just said, because I am replete with testosterone!”
NICK: OK, I am totally LOLing now.
ME: God. Sorry.
NICK: Is OK.
ME: I think I was taken over by the ghost of June Cleaver’s secret despair.
NICK: That sounds terrible.
ME: It is!

ME: Also, why is your computer called Mechatron?
NICK: Because that is an awesome name.
ME: But when I bought that Autobot fridge magnet, and wanted a Decepticon fridge magnet to go with it, you said you were all about the Autobots.
NICK: Mechatron, not Megatron.
ME: Yes, I’m aware of the subtle difference there. Just as I’m aware that Optimus Prime could pwn Megatron.
NICK: Well, of course.
ME: Don’t doubt my Transformers knowledge. I’m just suggesting the two are a little close for comfort.
NICK: Anyway, I wanted a name that fitted my elementary particle naming conventions. But I also wanted to acknowledge the metallic awesomeness of the new machine.
ME: And you couldn’t come up with a pun on Optimus Prime? You’re a tool of the Decepticons!
NICK: Arg! I am not! You take that back!
ME: I will not! You’re a Decepticon fancier!
NICK: Hmmph!
ME: Autobots! Transform and roll out!

Ever wondered what happens when Nick fails to respond quickly to an IM? Of course you have!

NICK: Sorry! Was just out at the loo.
ME: Yeah, right. Probably off having an affair or something. I know you.
NICK: Oh my!
ME: Well, it’s obvious, innit? Mysterious absences . . . Um. Some other stuff I can’t think of right now . . .
NICK: Hah! You got nothing!
ME: Unlike you. You’ve got your mistress. (Zing!)
NICK: Ha ha ha.
ME: Hang on, that wasn’t a zing at all! That was at my own expense! Bugger.
NICK: Self-defeating zinging.
ME: Yeah. No wonder you’re having an affair.
NICK: Oh dear.

NICK: Now. How’s our coffee situation? Oh. Enough for one cup but not for two.
ME: Hello! I am home all day.
NICK: Working hard for the money.
(Pause)
ME: Excuse me?
NICK: I’m just singing a song lyric! Didn’t mean nothing by it!
ME: Then why that song? Why not belt out “Blame it on the Boogie”?
NICK: Don’t blame it on the sunshine! Don’t blame it on the moonlight! Don’t blame it on the good times! Blame it on the boogie!
ME: Shut up.
NICK: Treena?
ME: Yes?
NICK: You asked for that.

Driving out:

ME: William Jolly Bridge is the best name for a bridge ever.
NICK: Yeah.
ME: Because it’s jolly.
NICK: Yeah.
ME: Because “jolly” is an underused word.
NICK: Yeah.
ME: Except at Christmas, when it’s overused.
NICK: Yeah.
ME: It’s a terrible state of being for a word.
NICK: Yeah.
ME: I’m really tired.
NICK: I can tell.

Driving in:

ME: Oh, and I bought a book (mumble mumble mumble)
NICK: What?
ME: You heard me.
NICK: You bought a book with Colin Firth on the cover.
ME: What? No! They make books with Colin Firth on the cover? Actually, all books should have Colin Firth on the cover.
NICK: So what did you say?
ME: I said I bought a book but you might be ashamed of me.
NICK: Was it a Sean Bean cookbook?
ME: Cooking Sean Bean? Or cooking for Sean Bean?
NICK: Sean Bean shows you his favourite recipes. Lots of pictures of him cooking.
ME: Shirtless.
(Pause)
ME: Sorry, were you talking?

While watching The Darling Buds of May:

ME: Primrose is reading John Donne. I told you so.
NICK: He was an old pervert.
ME: Sweetie, you’ve bought DVDs just so you can look at Kate Beckinsale’s bosom.
(Long pause)
NICK: Her bottom, really.
ME: Fair enough.

NICK: Bugger.
ME: Sweetie, I just dropped an egg yolk down my cleavage, so it can’t be as bad as that.
NICK: I just made a bit of a mess of the cushion, that’s all.
ME: Don’t eat over that cushion! The cover doesn’t unzip!
NICK: Well, I know that now.
ME: We’ve had that cushion for at least five years.
NICK: Well, possibly.