Classical Sass

(229) Conversations That Have Happened Despite Everyone’s Best Efforts

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Cyanide and Happiness, of course. ❤

(except mine probably)

(Me with someone whose uncle has diabetes apparently)
Them: Hey! So good to see you!
Me: Hey, yeah! Totally! Hi! How have you been?
Them: Oh you know, same old same old. I’m pretty healthy. But what about you?? How have you been?? I think about you often, you know.
Me: Oh well that is so sweet, Debra.
Debra: No, no, I really do. I worry about you.
Me: Awww! Ok.
Debra: You know, my mother’s sister’s ex husband so I guess he’s my ex-uncle but he’s such a wonderful guy we just think of him as Uncle Bob because he really is the sweetest guy you know, he has diabetes and he lost a foot-kidney-large-swatch-of-skin-that-maybe-probably-didn’t-have-to-do-with-diabetes-but-more-to-do-with-not-knowing-how-a-lawnmower-works. It was just horrible. So sad.
Me: That IS sad, Debra. I’m so sorry for your uncle. I hope he has a quick and clean recovery.
Debra: Oh well you know, it won’t be quick; he gets infected so easily. Part of the disease. You know all about that, of course. No one gets better. He’s the sweetest guy but he was always really bad with sweets. That was his downfall you know.
Me: I didn’t. I’m so sorry; I hadn’t realized he’d passed away.
Debra: Oh he hasn’t! But, you know, once they lose a foot/kidney/swatch of skin entirely unrelated to beetus, it’s all downhill.
Me: Well, this has been both illuminating and informative. Thank you so much for that murky lantern on my future, Debra.
Debra: Oh, suuuuuure no problem CS! I want only the best for you! So good to see you byyyyyyyeeee

This comic doesn’t really have much to do with the blog post, but I couldn’t resist plugging the Awkward Yeti here. I so love this guy’s work. Eight kinds of affectionate awesome.

(Me with a person who is not racist)
Non-racist Peep: That’s mean. I’m all for helping, but not if anyone is mean to me.
Me: That’s not really being an ally, then. That’s like…conditionally making friends after a competitive four square game.
NRP: What does that even mean? All lives. Unity. Kumbaya.
Me: It means we should help because everyone deserves humanity and equal rights, not because someone is nice to us.
NRP: I am being attacked.
Me: No? What?
NRP: Just because someone disagrees with you, doesn’t mean they are racist.
Me: I think this is more of a misunderstanding than a disagreement, but not being racist is an entirely different conversation.
NRP: Safety pin! Hate speech! Nothing can be accomplished without peace!
Me: That’s…not…what were you…? Ok, no. Maybe look up hate speech? I dunno. No.
NRP: Peace and humans and goodness for always forever I am so out
Me: ?

Sarah Scribbles. ❤

(Me at a restaurant with a friend who chose and loves that restaurant)
Me: Ooooo that fettuccine you got looks awesome!
Sam: Right?? This place is fucking amazing.
Me: Mmmm, my duck breast smells fantastic; can’t wait!
(Sample duck breast. Am horrified. It is chewy and bland and fucking seven more kinds of bland and then chewy again. Also what the fuck happened to every single color drained lump to the right of aforementioned chewiness. What happened. Were they vegetables? Was there a funeral? Who withheld salt at this funeral? Why weren’t gardeners on strike when this abuse went down? I have questions.) 
Sam: Isn’t it so delicious? I love the duck here. 
Me: Mmmm.
Sam: Like so tender, right?
Me (smiling): It’s a little chewier than I prefer, but that’s ok! Totally no worries.
Sam: Oh, I forgot you like your meat raw and inedible.
Me: Ha! Ok, but I’ll frequently settle for flavorful, though.
Sam: It wasn’t bland when I had it. Let me taste it.
(I hand him a forkful.)
Sam: That tastes fine! What don’t you like about it?
Me: It’s totally fine! I guess I just like it less cooked and more tenderized. And also spiced. I barely taste the apricot in the marinade. 
Sam: Well, you should tell the waitress. Here, I’ll do it. 
Me: No! No, it’s ok, I’ve had less than perfect duck before. I won’t die. 
Sam: Oh I see. You just don’t like my choice.
Me: I chose the duck. What?
Sam: No, the restaurant. You knew this was my favorite place.
Me: Was?? It isn’t anymore?? What is happening right now.
Sam: Ugh. Whatever, next time we’ll just skip food altogether and just get trashed.
Me: What the fuck did I originally suggest, Sam. 
Sam: It’s duck, CS. It’s a perfectly fine duck.
Me: Yes.
Me: Beats me. (chugs martini. Waits for check.)

(I have no idea who made this comic. It wasn’t me, tho.)

(Me with a person who thinks I should lose weight)
Them: Hey, how have you been?
Me: Good! How are you?
Them: Oh I’m ok, you know, whatever. But no really. What have you been up to?
Me: …Getting my midsection cross examined by people I haven’t seen in awhile?
Them: Oh no no! I wasn’t! I just…you know I think you’re beautiful.
Me: Oh, thanks so much, Debra!
Debra: Of course I do! But…well, yeah, you know, I know it’s hard…
Me: What’s hard?
Debra: Just, keeping up, right? We all get busy.
Me: I’m about as busy as usual, I guess.
Debra: Oh, really? You’re not stressed out?
Me: Meh. I’m pretty happy. I’m doing this thing where I don’t shame myself for not fitting someone else’s standard for something. It’s been really helpful.
Debra: Oh, I see.
Me: Do you?
Debra: Yeah…well, I guess as long as you’re happy.
Me: Exactly, Debra.

(Me trying to schedule anything)
Me: Ok, so here are the available times: Wednesday after 6pm, Thursday between 5–6pm, and Sunday at 12:15. 
Debra: Ok, how about Tuesday.
Me: Ok, so here are my available times, tho: Wednesday after 6pm, Thursday between 5–6pm, and Sunday at 12:15. 
Debra: I see. We really can only do Tuesday. 
Me: Ok, I guess we’ll have to skip it, then?
Debra: Is that really the only option?
Me: Not at all. Here are my available times: Wednesday after 6pm, Thursday between 5–6pm, and Sunday at 12:15. 
Debra: Ok, we’ll do Wednesday at 4pm.

Garfield. Obvs. He gets it.

(Me and hubs)
Me: Oh, so that’s what license and registration means.
Hubs: oh my god.
Me: I’m 37.
Hubs: …are you??
Me: Oh, like you’d feel better if you finally found out you’re married to a 12 year old.
Hubs: This holiday is over.

Calvin and Hobbes. Per usual.

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