Steve: I was moving the garbage bins and threw out my back.
Phil: Since you were already at the bins, you should’ve thrown out your front, too. No, seriously, nothing worse than a bad back.
Steve: Now I’m forced to sprawl on the sofa with an ice pack and watch televised sports. Tough duty. I believe you’ve also had a painful accident. I hear you were “rear-ended.” Is this something you can talk about in public?
Phil: Yes, I was rear-ended by a woman, and as is the case with most of my run-ins with women, she got the worse part of the deal. I was returning home from dropping the boys off at school and, as per traffic regulations, stopped at a stop sign. The lady behind me elected to ignore the laws of the State of California, and the laws of physics, and didn’t stop. I was driving my beat-up 1992 Ford Explorer with the tow package and she was driving some little Japanese car. Her headlight was hanging out of its socket like a battered boxer’s eyeball and her grille and fender were all crumpled. I searched vainly for any damage to my rear-end, or my car. Couldn’t find any. She knew it was her fault, she was nice, bad brake for her (har!). My only issue is that I did get what football players call a “stinger” from the whiplash. But, I’m OK, my rear-end is OK and the Explorer is OK. I did, however, use “The Accident” as an excuse to lie on the sofa and watch televised sports. Did you know Doritos has a new taco-flavored chip?
Steve: That’s great. I want my tortilla chips to taste like tacos. And I want my tacos to taste like chicken. Because everything else does. Glad to hear that you and your Explorer survived the rear-end assault. If only the other motorist had been driving a Ford Probe.
Phil: (Groan) — I want it duly noted that the last remark is clearly under the “Steve” paragraph.
Steve: Over the course of a year, I got rear-ended three times in Albuquerque. No actual physical injury, but it made me flinchy at intersections. Each time, it was a young woman behind the wheel of the other vehicle. Their little cars took all the damage as they bounced off the spare tire mounted on the back of my four-wheel-drive.
(I would like to point out that I legitimately got the words “rear-ended,” “bounced” and “mounted” into the same paragraph, thereby scoring a trifecta. Plus, “Albuquerque.” Top that, you cartoonist.)
Phil: Very impressive. I genuflect in your general direction. The last time I heard “rear-ended,” “bounced” and “mounted” used together was at Bert & Ernie’s. Someone recounting a Saturday night.
Steve: Let me guess. They ran over a deer.
Phil: They claimed it was the deer’s fault.
Steve: Sure. He was jaywalking.
Phil: I don’t know how reliable the information was. Facts are not my forté. Most of the time, I don’t know what I’m going on about. Maybe the “whiplash” rattled the old brainpan a bit. I’d advise you to get your facts elsewhere. I haven’t a clue what the dish is around here.
Steve: We should tell devoted readers of The Friday Dish why Doni and Kelly are not in this space, and this drivel is. Because of various travel and time commitments, the ladies needed a break from their weekly duties. We offered The Cutting Board for their coveted time slot. We men are often helpful, as long as you don’t ask us to move any garbage bins. Or drive.
Phil: I’m not sure they should have trusted us with The Dish. My “career map” has several smoking craters where jobs once were. You don’t give your Ferrari keys to a chimp smoking a cigar — unless you want holes in the upholstery. I thought Kelly and Doni had better sense than this. Come to think of it, I’m rather disappointed with them. I look to those two for guidance. They’re voices I thought I could trust.
Steve: As opposed to those other voices in your head.
Phil: Come to find out they don’t have brains enough to “password protect” their Dish files from us. What kind of thinking is that? “Oh, they’ll be fine, what harm could they do? It’s just one week.” Well, ladies, do you see what you’ve wrought? This mess of a Dish can be laid squarely at your feet. Allowing two couch apes to type away in this space is nothing short of incomprehensible. This can’t be fixed with a little ginger ale and baking soda, gals. You’ll have to live with the long-term ramifications of your decision. Tsk. I have half a mind to not participate any further with this sham. Maybe Steve can salvage some of this formerly fine feature. As for me, well, I have a rear-ended deer to mount.
Steve: I believe that is a violation of Fish & Game regulations, as well as natural law. No wonder your “career map” is a spent minefield, you scofflaw. I’d turn you in myself, if I could get up from this sofa.
But enough with bad backs and deer rears. Let us leave you loyal Dish readers with something to think about: How can a person working at home in a normal-sized suburban house walk 16.2 miles per day in search of a coffee cup that was right here a minute ago? And why do these miles of walking apparently do nothing to burn calories? Discuss among yourselves. I have to go get that chimp off the upholstery.
