Went out to dinner at one of my favorite restaurants earlier this evening, and it will probably not surprise you to hear that I still had Rima Fakih on my … let us say "mind." Sadly for my friend Haleim, the owner, it was not an overly crowded night. Happily for me, the wise-ass, the quiet room gave me space to ask, "Tell me, are you, as a man from Egpyt, OUTRAGED that a Lebanese woman has won the Two Thousand And Ten Miss USA contest?"
(Ordinarily, of course, I would not say that "And." But this time, you know, for comedy.)
Bastard. I have never been able to throw him off stride, not even for a moment. He knew exactly what I was talking about.
(We ended up having a fairly interesting conversation, stemming from this opening sally. (I would share some of the details with you, but, eh, now I'm getting the feeling he didn't think this would be an on-the-record talk (with some pajama-clad gossip blogger, to boot), so sorry, no.))
Anyway, I WILL get to him, one of these days.
And then he will have to stop calling me "Junior."
Being that he is probably a decade or so younger than me, his calling me that is kind of like being Dwight Howard, being dunked on by Rajon Rondo. Which will happen, which I am rooting for, and no, I am not actually comparing myself to Superman.
I could make way more free throws, dude. Please. 80% minimum, and that was after running suicides.
(Yeah, so I never actually got to shoot a foul shot in a so-called actual "game." Like that's supposed to mean something.)