I find this particularly funny. A certain slightly lower-than-normal functioning gentleman that I know always punctuates certain sentences in this fashion. Whenever he is telling about how he quit doing something or decided against something, he always ends by saying, "Nope, uh-uh, bag it". He also likes to place random "YEAH"s during your turn to talk. Whenever you go to ask him how he's doing, he always beats you to the punch by saying real loud "GOOD" or "FINE", so I never get past "How...". A couple of times after he cut me off this way I decided to change the question around in order to confuse him. It sorta went like this:
Me: "How..." Dude who talks funny: "Fine!" Me: "How'd ya like to give me twenty bucks? Dude: "No!" Me: "You said you were fine with it." Dude: (smiling nervously): "No, I didn't say that." Me: "Oh, you must've been trying to read my mind again. What happened?" Dude: "You're trying to be funny." Me: "Yeah sorry, I just wanted to have fun with ya." Dude: "Yeah! (laughs) Okay." Me: "So, you're doing alright then?" Dude: "Yeah." Me: "But you're not gonna give me twenty bucks now?" Dude (gets a semi-serious look on his face): "No, uh-uh, bag it."
(This post was started a few months ago after I drilled through a board and into my finger all the way to bone. I'm okay now, okay being a relative term. Anyway, I can't remember where I was going with it, so I am posting it somewhat finished, I think.)
My poor, evil middle finger. It had a mind of its own. I really had to watch out in public. Heck, I even had to switch which hand I used to wipe my bottom, for fear of something taking the liberty to grab my attention. Don't ask. I think this all started early on in my life. You see, my thumb and index finger saw all the action then. My index finger got to point at things and pick my nose. My thumb got to venture into my mouth, then when I got a little older, it helped me with my Fonzie impersonations. While the two end fingers knew their place on the hand, my middle finger became wildly jealous and started acting out. My middle finger started getting in the way of things a bit too much as I grew older. This was the beginning of the real trouble, or as I call them, the "Bird" years. My middle finger would tell the other fingers that when the master raised his arm to salute authority, or other dignitaries called "assholes, dickheads, and douche bags", that they should all take a bow. Bow they did, all except my middle finger. He thought it was hilarious. It was after many years of getting in trouble from these bad habits of my middle finger that I came to the conclusion that it may have evil spirits trapped inside. I researched this subject quite thoroughly and came to two solutions to my problem. First, I could try an exorcism. Second, I could try releasing the evil spirits through a ritual "trepanation", as performed by many ancient cultures. I didn't trust being left alone with a priest, so I chose trepanation. Trepanation is the ritual "opening up" of the skull to release trapped spirits inside the mind. This has seemed to work for some people, so I figured that it would work for me. As far as working on my middle finger, I didn't know, but I was willing to take the risk. One thing was for sure, I would have to deceive, lay a trap, for my middle finger because I knew it wouldn't cooperate on its own. The perfect setup: I needed to drill some holes in a board. I blindfolded him with a work glove and put him in the line of fire. Once the bit started boring into the plywood, I would slowly maneuver him into position. I paid off his brothers by promising them a week's vacation from scratching stuff that smells and absolutely no probing duty for at least a month. The plan went off without a hitch. Blood dripped down my hand with a pulsating flow. A black mist spewed out of the hole in my finger, and was sucked back into whatever hell it came from. Sure, I felt pain, but I also felt a sense of relief. I would no longer fear awkward social moments or ugly confrontations caused by my middle finger.
And so it was, no more standing up, as it were, and I just laid back and took it in the ass. My middle finger sits there staring off into a world of resignation, a seat next to the barred widows of the asylum. This is what life is like without that middle finger, my little red imp that started it all. I haven't much left in me in the way of "fuck off and die" anymore. Their benevolent smiles hide one hell of a set of sharp teeth. Who are "they" anyway? I know and I don't know, so don't ask me. I do know that I can't fight toe to toe and win. I couldn't before when I had the guts to salute them right in front of their faces. I killed off the one little thing that did stand up to conformity. Why? Because I age and friends get farther away and fewer in number. I need a break from the fight. It's a bit pointless to keep a good supply of piss and vinegar around these days, when there's little interest in fighting. When all of us are queued up in perfect rows, running in perfect interlocking circles, listen closely to those hands holding the cash; that will be your only applause. I did a bad thing and laid down my middle finger. I had a total bullshit overload this past year or so and just had to be silent for a while. I may have rambled and I may have not made much sense here, but at least while I made the effort to finally publish this post, my middle finger was doing pushups and slowly getting back in the game. P.S. I say to "They": buzz off and feel slight discomfort!!! HA! Well, I have to start off small or I'm likely to get a cramp.