Time for yet another meme …
Invent a memory of me and post it in the comments. It can be anything you want, so long as it’s something that’s never happened. Then post this in your journal so that people can invent memories for you. (I consider the last bit optional if you’d rather not use it in your own blog.)
And remember … my mom reads this. :-O
(via Les)
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Oh god, remember that time we were running to catch the last metro after that insane birthday party on the Plateau? You were totally fried and tried to jump the turnstile because we could hear the train coming, and you caught your foot on the bar and went fricking FLYING and then did that action hero thing and totally ducked and rolled and it was really amazingly cool and you TOTALLY looked like you were going to make a sweet fricking landing on both feet except you ended up at the top of the stairs and ended up skidding down to the platform on your ass.
And I couldn’t get up off the floor because I laughing so hard so I missed the last train and had to walk home at one am in the middle of winter, you bastard.
Remember that time when we were on vacation in the UK when we were all three sheets to the wind and you said that Morris Dancing was to an Olympic Sport.
God that was great.
You seemed to have some sort of memory of all of the Gold Medal winners of the past four Summer Olympics. You almost had us convinces that Clyde Gryfnn of Grenhulyresougenafe, Wales won in Sydney. Margie told you you we’re Daft, and that there was know way that Morris Dancing was an Olympic sport, and that it really was just a way for the Welsh to annoy the Tourists.
You continued on that the real reason that Rowen Atkinson made fun of Morris dancing was that he’d come in forth in the trails, and didn’t make the National team back in ’68.
Yep…We all nodded polity and bought you another Guiness, and a pack of crisps.
Good times…Good times.
Remember that one time back when we we’re in the Justice League and you told Hawkgirl that Spandex was a privilege and not a right. Boy she really blasted around the station with her mace for that one. Dude, even the Flash was laughing at you.
Last one, I swear…
Dave, remember that time that you were going to copyright the word “Wangatude” because some silly bug-filled-lollipop-owning woman in Canukistan was claiming that her husband was the Master of “Wangatude”. You’d thought you’d show her and copyright the word so that you could go all Bill Gatesy on her in the future.
Well it didn’t take long to get a response form her (well it sort of did, because it came via moose mail) when several envelopes of yellow legal pad paper showed up at you front door for several days in a row.
Then it got nastier when yellow legal pad paper started to show up claiming that she was going to let loose the squirrels of war. You didn’t really know how to deal with this since none of us had ever seen a squirrel of war. Though Doyce had claimed to have heard that there were squirrels of war guarding one of the two trees in SoDak.
But sadly everything came to a head when a package showed up from the outer reaches of Canukistan the contained a ton of annoyed and gaseous Ladybugs. Well at least you knew when to throw in the toque and you let her keep her precious “Wangatude”.
*tip o’ the hat to the three loyal readers of Marn, Co.*
The one I usually tell people about is the weekend the four of us spent down at Wit’s End and the Horrible Safeway Back Waxing Double-Dare.
I’ll never look at a gin martini again.
I still can’t believe that back in high school, you played Gandalf in a nudie version of “The Hobbit.” I was so glad I had already graduated, ’cause I just know I’d’ve been cast as Gollum.
So I’m sitting there, waiting for a bus.. and this crazy derro lurches up and starts yelling about the Zeraldians and anal probes and stuff.
I blink, “***Dave, is that you? What happened to the Armani suit?”
You stare back, eyes black with fear and metholated spirits…and cry, “They’re coming…you’re next, you’re next!”
Actually, I met ***Dave back when I was a costumer for the Ballet Trocadero de Monte Carlo.
The way he danced that dying swan … my eyes mist up just thinking of the poetry of it.
It was a sad day, indeed, when ***Dave hung up his tutu.
It was 1927, and we were on a safari in the serengeti. After the three days of miserable rain, the desert was now hot; the thirsty ground had absorbed the water and cracked with it. Our rations had rotted, our gas tank was leaked and useless, and our trusty gun was out of ammunition.
The hyenas cackled in the distance and began to circle. As we looked at the body of our porter, poisoned by the thorns of a mysterious plant, Dave, we realized we were never coming home.
I remember that one expedition we went on into the heart of the Amazon. Our native guide, *click*pop*pop*click* Noc *pop*, was going on and on about how Christina Aguilera was the reincarnation of one of their river gods, and you were like “Don’t even go there.”
You were in rare form, my friend.
Until the spiders came, of course. It’s a good thing you had that genetic defect that rendered the deadly poision into some serum that makes your burbs taste somewhat like Ginger Ale.
Me? I don’t think I’ll ever play the pfluglehorn again.
But in the end, I suppose things just have a way of working out. I hear Blair Underwood is starring as …Noc… in the Made-For-TV movie.
Good times.
The time how I was all like “What does mine say” and you where like “Dude” and then you where all like “dude what does mine say?” “Sweet.”
Or the time how you gave out hundreds of dollars to anyone that visited your blog.
Or the time how we went to the moon for cheese, but I wanted to get home, so I flew back the rocket ship, leaving you there.
Or the time..
I’ll stop now.
🙂