Thursday, March 19, 2009

MEN ARE FROM MARS, PART IXX

Let's just say that there is a word.

And how about we make these words be potato chip.

Now to you, and me, and most other English-speaking individuals (well, except the British with the whole chips/ fries/ crisps bit), a potato chip is a slice of potato, fried and salted.

Right? You and I agree on that, okay?

It's nothing more, and really nothing less.
It's just a potato chip.

So suddenly in through the front living room window crashes in this huge weirdly-marked extraterrestrial from some distant galaxy. Totally uninvited. Distinct odor. Like bad eggs and extremely full diapers. Maybe with a little mold tossed in.

But no politeness, right into your space.

And to HIM, and all of the aliens like him from his corner of the universe, the word potato chip is the equivalent of filming your mother sexually active on prime time television with Jerry Lewis (i.e. not good).

You explain to this alien that no, potato chip means, well, potato chip here on earth. You're sorry that the word offends him, but that isn't what you meant by it, you just meant to say, well, that bit of fried potato that is a potato chip.

The galactic visitor refused to accept your explanation, immediately contacts all his warships in space, threatens to leave the entire earth in nuclear annihilation, and leaves, slamming the bedroom door, in complete and utter disgust, and refuses to talk to you the rest of the night.

Anyone got a better explanation?

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