You are sittin' there, at a nice quite restaurant; and right when the waiter comes, the 40 something thing sittin' across from ya, with a totally straight face and dead serious tone, says, "You know, there is something that was never explained to me. After Santa Clause comes down the chimney, is he supposed to leave via the front door, or is he supposed to go back up the chimney? And how does he get past the flue, and stay so clean; not to mention I wonder if he has any bones, or if he's like a planarium or something, so it doesn't matter that he's so fat and he can still fit down that narrow opening."
Neither me nor the first love of my life answered that. I was also glad the waiter was only carryin' menus at the time.
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The mullethead told us a story at home once, as we were enjoying the fire, tay, and crumpets with butter and Nutella. Once when she was workin' in a warehouse, she sat down and the chain of her wallet got stuck on a nail on a pallet. She picked up the pallet and was about to walk it over to her manager to ask if he had a crowbar to pry the nail out, though thank the gods it suddenly occurred to her to pull her wallet out, unhitch the chain from her belt, and work from there. How embarrassing that could have been. And judging from the state of the world, all mortal flotsam seem to be such zone-cases.
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Once when the mullethead was rentin' a flat, she got a new manager who also worked in real estate, that encouraged the mullethead to send her referrals if anyone was sellin' their house. So of course, Mullethead just has to say, "I'm a misanthropic isolationist who deals with mortal flotsam as little as possible and I do try to keep my circle of the dayam liabilities down to the absolute minimum, but if by remote chance I run into someone, I'll keep you in mind."
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