Space Log Jammin'

I'm not saying it was right. I'm not saying I'm still thinking these thoughts. I'm just saying that at the time, Lola Bunny was a special kind of woman. A kind of woman more like a rabbit than most women. A kind of woman who existed much less than most women typically do. The kind of woman who was super good at basketball and the second best player on the Looney Toons team behind Michael Jordan. So I suppose that means she was by some kind of broken transitive property almost as good as Michael Jordan at basketball. She was an independent lady of class and station who would mostly certainly not abide a man calling her "doll."

She was a special lady. And as a child, I remember having adult feelings for the drawing someone drew and the voice someone recorded into a microphone that was this pink were-rabbit. I blame this somewhat depraved weirdness primarily on Jessica Rabbit. She was the first cartoon character who made me feel feelings in my Bugle Boys. Also, I just realized they are both rabbit-related. And that's weird. And there's probably a conspiracy there, I bet. But that's an opinion for another day. For now, the winner, who won because apparently, he had the same problem I did, which means maybe my parents wasted all that children's therapy money, because IT'S NORMAL, MOM AND DAD, IT'S NORMAL.

Joey's Three Words or Less on SPACE JAM

- "Lola Bunny Boner" -

Total wins: 5

Space Jam

When was the last time you took a moment out of your day to truly appreciate just how very insane Space Jam was? At some point in probably roughly 1994-ish, a man with an idea stood in front of executives who have money and said “Michael Jordan plays basketball with Elmer Fudd and aliens and I think we should get Bill Murray” and the executives said “Here’s money to go make a movie where Michael Jordan plays basketball with Elmer Fudd and aliens and we’ll get you Bill Murray” and then it happened.

No, no. I don’t think you understand. The movie was made. People were paid to make a movie where Daffy Duck and Marvin the Martian post up on aliens who were real tiny but then got real big by sucking basketball powers out of real, actual NBA players who agreed to be a part of this insanity. Then the aliens used their new basketball powers to challenge the Looney Toons to basketball, lest they became amusement park slaves or something. And also Danny DeVito was their boss.

Space Jam was the reason I stayed in my terrible, terrible child basketball league where I never scored and couldn’t walk and dribble at the same time. Space Jam was indirectly responsible for parents that I hope weren’t mine leaning over to their spouses and saying in hushed whispers “At least Derek isn’t as dreadful as that blubber-fisted ham steak sloshing his way to defense. Oh what a surprise. He tripped on his cankle again.”

I played basketball because I loved the crap out of a movie whose star had the acting chops of a bean sprout. Bugs Bunny sinking a jump shot was all the inspiration my Dorito-addled brain needed to fabricate grandiose championship scenarios. They never happened, and I was worse at the sport than Newman from Seinfeld was, who was also in Space Jam, which is something I literally just now remembered.

This was the Avengers of the NBA/Cartoon world. Those aren’t two worlds that even make sense together, but it doesn’t matter, because it happened. And because Space Jam happened, I’m still holding my breath for Cyber Gridiron. Which is what I call my movie script about the Thundercats joining forces with the Manning brothers as they struggle to save Snarf from a team of cyborgs who choose to hang their hostage’s life on the outcome of an American football game, instead of just killing him outright, which I think we can get away with by attributing it to a “technical programming error in the equational logic circuits” of the cyborgs.

What I’m saying here is while quality filmmaking isn’t a thing Space Jam had, what it did have was an imaginative, meth-fueled script filled with originality. This was before the era when all Hollywood did was prequels, sequels, reboots, redos, rematches, and remixes, of course, so you can’t say this is the future of filmmaking and a return to unique scripting and great idea men. You might be able to say that about Rian Johnson’s Looper, which many critics actually are, but that’s an opinion for another day.

I just think that because we exist in a reality where Patrick Ewing, Charles Barkley, and Larry Bird can be put into the same hyper crazy stew as Yosemite Sam, Porky Pig, and Tweety Bird, we should be smiling at least eight hundred times more a day. And if you’re sad, remember that you can always watch Michael Jordan pretend to talk to Bugs Bunny. Be heartened in your heart that the reason Jordan delivered all his lines like he was unsure and afraid was because of many conversations like the following with director Joe Pytka that is 100% absolutely true:

Pytka: So, Michael, just stare at this tennis ball, deliver your lines, and we’ll put Bugs Bunny in later.

Jordan: He’s not there, Joe. Don’t be thick with me.

Putka: Right, yeah. Of course he isn’t, Michael. We’re putting him in the movie in post. He’s not there yet.

Jordan: Well why don’t we get him over here?

Pytka: He doesn’t exist, Michael.

Jordan: You say those lies to me one more time, Joe, and I’m going to hit you in the middle of your face.

Pytka: Okay, let’s not do that. We just really need you to deliver your lines to this tennis ball and pretend it’s Bugs Bunny.

Jordan: I don’t see why I should pretend.

Pytka: Yes, that’s great. Method acting. Love it.

Jordan: I’m not acting.

Pytka: What a pro!

Jordan: I want to go home.

Pytka: Action!

But really, guys. If something as batcrap crazy as Space Jam can happen, what other delightful, joyful things can happen? Live every day as though Space Jam could happen to you. I might go as far as to say that hope for a cancer cure is just around the bend, because we exist in a realm that thinks the NBA and the Looney Tunes should be merged together. I think I might just be willing to venture a guess that as a species, we’re right around the corner from becoming immune to AIDS. I might say with hopeful hesitation that because of Space Jam, I’ll live to see December 22 this year.

Wait, I’ve had a thought. What if it’s the opposite? What if instead of Space Jam as proof that life is beautiful, it’s actually proof that life is definitely not? Does the fact that Space Jam exists make this life worth living, or does it mean we should be holding weekly suicide luncheons?

Oh my dear sweet lemon juice concentrate. What if Space Jam was a foretelling of things to come? The marriage of two worlds that ought never be joined. The intimate binding of creature and man til they cannot be distinguished, one from the other. When the dimensional rift is complete, flame and suffering will be on what we sup, pain and smoke our currency. Before the great Old Ones we will bow on bended and bare knee across the broken glass of a landscape we no longer recognize. Though we will cry for deliverance and even death, we’ll receive neither, for the Ancient Ones do not know suffering, do not know pain, know nothing, in fact, but affliction. They will toy with us and we will shed tears if there remains but enough of our soul to weep. The tears will fall for our fallen brothers and sisters, but not because they’ve left us, no. We will weep jealously to join them in the Next, to whatever awaits beyond this torture, this pain, this unending anguish. Cry out, children of the damned. Cry out, children of the new world. Raise your voices and praise or curse the Black Goat, to Yog-Sothoth, to Azathoth,  for their tenants come, one by one, till our lives are blessedly snuffed like the pathetic flame of a waxless candle.

Ia! Ia! Cthulu Fthagn! Ph’nglui mglw’nfah Cthulu R’lyeh wgha’nagl fhtagn!

I’m pretty sure that message is in the subtext of Space Jam. I might be overthinking this.

- Blunderbuss Wilson

Your Three Words On: Space Jam

It's time for another exciting edition of Opinions in Three Words or Less! Today's topic: Space Jam. Y'know. Starring Michael Jordan. And Bugs Bunny. That Space Jam. Not what is probably an adult film by the same name which is decidedly not family friendly, I'm willing to bet. Don't Google that. I'm afraid to Google Space Jam now. I'm not going to Google just "Space Jam."

Urine and Winning. Like Peanut Butter and Celery.

Let us welcome a newcomer to the ranks of people who have made it their friggin life's mission to be the all-time high scorer and winner of all things O3WL. His name is Jessica, and I don't know why, being a girl, I have to use masculine pronouns to describe him, but those are the rules, so I'll do it. For him.

Now, while some of you may be all like "But I had the exact same opinion that he did!" (he being me, not Jessica), I'd like to remind you to shut your dumb ugly stupid mouth hole. It's not a contest of who can match my opinion. It's a purely subjective competition based solely around a single subject and that subject is me. Winning is about as random as roulette, only you have a better chance of winning if you're clever instead of only lucky. I wouldn't call this one clever. Just correct. So very, unwaveringly correct.

You see, you shouldn't poop in the urinal. I once saw a turd in a urinal and I felt like I had witnessed an amputee orphan being thrown into a river. It's just a violation of every decent thing the world has to offer. And in three simple words, I think Jessica really told us all how to be better people. He has shown us the way, I think, in a succinct way that only O3WL can really draw out of the masses.

Folks? Don't poop in the urinal. When you cut someone off on the freeway? You just pooped in that guy's urinal. When you cut in line? Poo. In the urinal. When you tell your grandma to go die already because the snickerdoodles aren't as snickerdoodly as lat time? You dropped a deuce in her urinal. When someone at work just gets your gosh dern goat and you turn around and you put a dinner fork right in the soft flesh of their upper thigh? A whole mess of #2 just stinking up that fella's urinal.

Folks. Let's all listen to Jessica and his wise, wise words. Don't poop in the urinal.

Jessica's Three Words or Less on URINAL ETIQUETTE

- "Not for pooping." -
Total wins: 1

Urinal Etiquette

Here’s a thing that happened to me the other day that would not upset a well adjusted person, probably.

My bladder was full of urine, so I decided I would get rid of some of that urine by putting it into a urinal. As you do. There was a chap walking in front of me, also en route to the facilities. This happens. Sometimes we men of manly stature and station have to loose wastes at the same time. The fellow and I made eye contact and shared a polite nod and the pursed lips that I seem to think communicates a polite “hello” but also says “Please don’t talk to me. I have nothing to say to you.” So it wasn’t like he didn’t know I was there.

The bathroom was empty. Not another soul stirred in the stalls, not a chap stood at one of four urinal outlets. So why, pray tell, did this man and the 56 inches surrounding his waist choose the urinal two from the leftmost urinal? This is important because the urinal this guy chose was the only urinal flanked on either side by porcelain pee pillars suited for adults. The leftmost urinal, was, in fact, tiny. Intended for children. Or hobbits. Or Michael J. Fox.

So the predicament this very inconsiderate man with high cholesterol put me in was this: I either select one of the adult urinals directly flanking the one he was using and be able to feel his flank steak shoulder brushing against my own, or I act like a man and distance myself from the only other human in the restroom by one urinal length and use the midget urinal.

I bent my knees, angled down, and did what I went there to do.

Standing directly beside another man without a one urinal buffer as you both urinate is wrong. I don’t know how it’s wrong, but it is. There is no real consequence or law of peeing like you’re practicing the buddy the system, but it’s still wrong. It’s wrong like Thanksgiving dinner flavored soda is wrong. It’s wrong like Donald Trump’s hair is wrong. It’s wrong like sheets with a thread count of 6 are wrong. There’s nothing inherently morally wrong with it, but it’s still somehow Darwinistically off. And this walking donut deposit forced me to do it, or squat like I was doing something you shouldn’t do in urinals, because it’s mean to the janitor who has to deal with it.

You’d think the story stops there. You’d think that Porkchop McButterbritches over there, one urinal away from me, had done his lavatory damage and was satisfied making me look and feel stupid. But not old Butterbritches, no. He decides to break the two cardinal urinal rules.

I can feel his gaze burning into the side of my head from my Ivan Rodriguez position. I try to avoid it. But folks, I had lots of urine. And apparently he did as well. Eventually, I just have to turn to look at him. So now we’re looking at each other while we’re both holding our Nelson Mandelas.

“How’s the workday?” gargles the mayonnaise enthusiast.

C’mon. Really? We’re doing this? You ridiculously inappropriate cellulite collector. I respond with a simple, curt reply, crafted to fend off any further conversation. “Fine.”

But does it sway him? No, of course not. The guy who probably had a bunker of cake for breakfast continues. “Man, I’m ready to go home.”

Because God loves me, the flow ended as he spoke the word “go,” so I shake off, zip up, and fling out another witty, timeless comeback. “Yeah.”

And then I leave, that inimitable air of unsatisfied tête-à-tête still floating behind me. And thus ends the example of how not to treat your next one on one urinal experience.

-Claudius Templesmith 

Your Three Words On: URINAL ETIQUETTE

It's time for another exciting edition of Opinions in Three Words or Less! Today's topic: Urinal Etiquette. Perhaps this is one just for the fellas out there, but if a classy lass comes up with a fabulous opinion, she'll win, because I am a fair and just gamesman. Use your thoughts. Formulate short form opinions.

On Prizes

Second of all, I prefer to skip firsts, as they bother me.

I have decided a thing and that thing is what the first official prize of Opinions in Three Words or Less will be. I won't declare what it is, because it may deter some fine opinion havers from participating in America's #1 blog about opinions, and so I won't tell you what it is. I will, however, say that the first individual to reach 10 wins will be the benefactor of this gift. It'll be from me to you, whoever you are. And it will be tailored and made specifically for you. I promise.

Keep an eye out for score updates. But no one is even halfway there just yet, so it's truly anybody's game.

Stay frosty, gentlemen and gentleladies.


- Gimli, son of Gloin

It's Dangerous to Go Alone! Take This Win!

Another swell round of opinions, opinion havers. This round's victory goes to Joey, though, I'm afraid. And this is a good example of why you shouldn't always attempt a funny opinion. Aside from the fact that only about 6 of you have wit enough to contend with your wholly good and benevolent gamemaster, sometimes Seinfeld-esque observation opinions are just as good. But in a different way. Like how turkey bacon is just as good as normal bacon, but it's so very different, but still delightful. Turkey bacon could net you a "W."

I chose Joey's because he's right. Meaning he's correct. Nail. On it's head. Righto, Sonny Jim. It's the exact same syndrome, isn't it? I'd never really considered the phenomena before he brought it up, but I wonder what other works of fiction, games, movies, novels, whatever, have the same problem? The piece is titled one thing and the protagonist (or at least primary focus character) is called another and the uneducated can't reconcile the two. In fact, if you think of more, comment below. I'm genuinely curious. How many "No, that's the TITLE of this thing, not the guy's name!" situations can we come up with?

Many people probably don't know any better, but that's no reason for us not to publicly mock them. So join with me in openly berating every bo-tard who doesn't know the princess is Zelda and every pirate hooker who doesn't know Frankenstein is the doctor. Way to go, turkey bacon.

Joey's Three Words or Less on PEOPLE WHO THINK LINK'S NAME IS ZELDA

- "Similar to Frankenstein." -

Total wins: 4

People Who Think Link's Name is Zelda

There is a problem and that problem is people who think the little elfman in the Legend of Zelda video game series is named Zelda. I absolutely will not stand for this infraction. I’m more insulted by this than I am by Madonna’s arms.

I am actually not that big of a fan of the Zelda series. I’m certainly not against them, as I am a gamer. I respect the snot out of Zelda, but they are typically not my bag, and that’s okay. I like the idea of the Legend of Zelda more than I actually like the games. So I am not a Zelda purist. This isn’t a Mountain Dew and D&D and virginity-fueled rant. I have done away with all three of those things. Some mournfully, some, less so. I have only ever defeated a single Zelda game (Link to the Past) and extensively played only two other games in the series (Ocarina of Time and Windwaker). I am not arguing on behalf of those among you with Japanese relationship pillows or whatever the crap they’re called that look like the princess herself. I am arguing for gamers and lovers of general nerdery. I mean, these people what with their stupid thinking Link is named Zelda…they’re as bad as people who think Greedo shot first.

Sidebar: to clarify for the terrible, terrible, people out there who don’t know, Zelda is the princess that you, as protagonist and young elf-like man, are attempting to impress so you can presumably bone her. Don't be offended, I didn't come up with that. A Japanese guy did. Your name is Link. It is Zelda’s legend. The legend is of her, and the legend always involves needing Link to do tasks like put things in empty bottles and throw chickens. Sidebar over.

Let me ask you a question, person who thinks Zelda is the name of the green-clad hero of Hyrule. How much do you support forced child labor? Because a recent study I made up showed nearly 98% of 9 in 6 people surveyed who think Zelda is Link’s name support the forceful employment of children ages 6 to 15 for little or no wages. What kind of person are you? Do you think curb stomping is a valid and humane method of execution? How many Labrador puppies did you suffocate so far in today’s work week? I bet you watch Two and Half Men and laugh, don’t you? Why do you exhume the graves of people sharing your middle name and pee into the casket? Does a typical meal for you involve the career aspirations of single mothers with a side of orphan prayers? These are the types of people that think Link is Zelda.

Perhaps I’m overreacting, but I wish you were never born, you waste of human potential. No, no. I wish you were born, but had been born straight from your mother’s womb into a vat of delicious, boiling white cheddar fondue. Not because I want to eat you. That’s stupid and cannibalistic. If there's one thing I'm not, it's athletic, but if there are two, it's athletic and a cannibal. No, not for eating, but born into the fondue because I don’t think that it would kill you. You would, however, probably have a severe physical deformity and no one would like you because you would have a crippling fear of cheese that you couldn’t explain because you had no memory of your traumatic birth. “Hey,” people would say, “aren’t you the guy with the shriveled skin who is also terrified of nacho day at the cafeteria?”Admittedly, I don’t know that much about Legend of Zelda lore. I’m far from an expert. I don’t actually have a right at all to stand up for it. But I’m going to because I am right and you are wrong and you are arrogant and I am still right and you are still wrong and arrogant while I remain right.

- Spike

Congrats! You Won a Midget!

The battle was hard fought and there were casualties on both sides. We lost some friends, but made new ones. I personally watched eleven Turkish brick layers parish from open neck wounds. Why? Why were they laying brick there? Ah, well. Die and let living stuff die, Paul McCormick says. But I know we're all the better for it. I'm proud of you all.

Mostly, though, I'm proud of Zach, because he wins the midget round. Although I did have a quality chortle at a few different opinions, his makes me think of a society where little people are sold, and in small italic writing near an asterisk it says Zach's opinion and then there are little Capri Sun packet things that have magic in then and those are on a nearby rack, but you have to buy those separately, but it's okay because they sell all sorts of spells for your very own midget, so you want to collect them*. That's why Zach has the best opinion in three words or less.

I do believe that's his first win. Party on. Oh, and before I sign off, I have to apologize for "liking" an entry. It was terribly unprofessional. But it made me go "PLAF!" and I had never heard that sound before. So, sorry Jered. You definitely didn't win.

Okay, bye then. Til next time, sportsfans.

- Zach's Three Words or Less on MIDGETS -

"Magic not included."

Total wins: 1

*DO NOT FRIGGIN START TRYING TO SELL MIDGETS! IT'S FREAKING IMMORAL! IT'S SO WRONG, YOU GUYS! DON'T DO IT!

Midgets

PREFACE:
First of all, I have never had a little person tell me they prefer to be called little person rather than midget. I will assume that’s an old wives’ tale. I’ll gladly do it, if that’s what they want. Not because I’m politically correct, because I’m not. But because I don’t usually like being called Nate. I prefer Nathan or one of my many stupid nicknames, like D. Malcolm Tate. Someone who insisted on calling me Nate would be a colossal tool when he knew full well I preferred Nathan. The argument, understandably, doesn’t make the rock hardest of sense, but this is not a place for rock hard arguments. It is a place for opinions soft as bruised pears. And my opinion is that “midget” is a fun word and “little person” is not a word that is as fun. And now for my opinion of midget people.

Midgets. They’re everywhere. Well, maybe not everywhere. They are some places, but not all places. What I mean to say is that it would be a problem if midgets outweighed the taller populace. For real. Everything would get smaller. Like counters at restaurants and the average height of windows. If I was part of a height minority like that, things would not be tailored for me. Right now, everything is built with tall folk in mind and I am comfortable. But if I wasn’t in the majority, I’d probably be in the minority and things would probably be a lot different. Crouching under doorways, sitting on dwarf toilets with my knees level with my hair, trying to manipulate scissors with grips designed for hands more compact than my own, buying clothes in octuple XL, struggling to type on diminished keyboards, purchasing custom size mattresses on the black market because the midgets have illegalized Bigger wares, driving government mandated dune buggy-like vehicles called Scamperers.

It would be pandemonium. Soon, the little people would revolt against the towering freaks that mar their otherwise perfect 3’11” catered world. There is violence in the streets. Since the Smalls outnumber the Bigs ten to one, they easily swarm we giants and giantesses. I certainly can’t stop them. I doubt you can. Not alone. No, not alone. But we are not alone.

And so we band together. It is not a matter of color. Religious prejudices are cast aside. We few, we proud few, join together, surmounting barriers of language and race to stand on the shores of Stubleg Shore as tugboat-sized warships approach. Here, we make our stand. Here, we decide who will inherent this war-torn land. Your grandfathers fell with the first of the rebellion at the Battle of Stuntgrowth City. Your fathers fell in the Manchild Massacre. Today is not the day you fall. Perhaps one day you will meet your end at the tip of one of their cruel gardening spades, but not today. Today is when they fall hilariously because their heads are so close to the ground already and the distance traveled is so short.

Stand tall, comrades, friends, soldiers, brothers! With legs proportionate to our bodies we stand! With arms and hands adequate to our size we hold firm to the belief that all men and all women are created equal, except for our wee oppressors that must stack two on top of one another to look us eye to eye! So it actually takes two of them to equal one of us. Technically, we are all created equal, but some are only fractionally equivalent!

Brothers and sisters, stand! Brothers and sisters, fight! Brothers and sisters, this is the day the Tall will stand against the Small for the liberation and liberty of all the downtrodden!It probably won’t come to that, though. So I don’t have a problem with littler people. Or their Scamperers.

- Amsterdam

Retroactive Scores: Historical O3WL Jiggy Boom Time

I told you I'd let you know what scores were retroactively. So this is that. There hasn't been that many entries in the O3WL logbooks, but enough to have leaders and losers. Unfortunately, I only recorded scores, not what the topic of the day was, so I'm afraid all you get is numbers. I don't feel that combing through Facebook looking for the old posts for hours is a thing that will edify my spirit. So enough of your complaints! Why do you hate my spirit? Just shut your mouth hole and be happy I'm even keeping track of the scores! I am your Gamemaster. And you shall respect my decisions.

Cammi Bard has ONE win

Tony Borroso has logged ONE victory

Thera Card: ONE is the number of her winning opinions in three words or less Sarah Meekins managed to get ONE success under her belt

Sarah Meekins is on the board with ONE single win.

Joey Ordway is current clubhouse leader at THREE wins.

Virginia Norton, my wife, is nipping at the heels of the first place opinion haver with TWO smashing opinions

And there it is, champs. All those people not in the small list above are what I will consider "losers" until they get at least one opinion chosen. My advice to all losers: stop sucking. Step it up, son. Get intelligent. Ponder your three words before you post them. Or I will endorse the mocking of your three words in public. You'll feel like Stephanie Meyer in a room full of people who like well written stories. There will be more insults than you can even conceive of.

-Mr. Blue

Green Olives: The Winnering

You're going to think this is rigged. You're going to think I am an unfair gamesman. I assure you, I'm not. It just so happens that my wife won and she did so because her entry was precisely what my blog entry on this entry was about. I wrote the blog entry before posting the question, and whether you believe that or not is irrelevant because I don't care because you're a turd nose. You'll see soon enough that she is not favored in the games. She does not hold the most historical wins. I'll post a retroactive victory summary of O3WL (a shorthand that I imagine won't catch on at all) entries in a few days.

Virginia, you've attained victory. Celebrate by making me a sammich.

- Virginia's Three Words or Less on GREEN OLIVES -

"The olive theory."

Total wins: 2

Green Olives

Salutations, listeners, if you're reading this aloud.

This is an opinion. Yours is your own. I don't want it unless it's in less than three words. With that settled, let's have a talk about things.

There's something about olives that divides relationships. There's a theory that I'm sure I'm stealing from someone wittier and more observant than I am that states that if, in any given romantic relationship, both parties either like or both dislike olives (green or black; doesn't matter), then that relationship is doomed. It's never been proven wrong because I refuse to listen to stories to the contrary if they exist. A man and a woman who each love them some olives is as damned as Jerry Sandusky's soul.

Below: An Illustration of Science

Duduskus likes olives. His wife, Ferd, also likes olives. The two will enjoy green olives on their pizza. Most nights, they will partake of what the kids call a dirty martini. From time to time, Ferd will put out a small glass bowl filled with assorted olives for her and Duduskus to snack on between pepperoni, bacon, and green olive pizzas, dirty martinis, and Ritz Cracker hors d'oeuvres that Ferd thinks makes her a better wife. They don't, but women will think what they'll think, AMIRIGHT?!

One day, Ferd and Duduskus get lit up on dirty martinis and Ferd kills her husband with a garden rake after Duduskus drunkenly comments on her flapping tricep taffy.

Do you see? Do you see how poorly their relationship ended? What if hey had a little child? What if its name was Wheatgrape and he was 5 years old and he had to watch that? I don't know if Wheatgrape saw it or if he exists, but what if he did and does? What if in 20 years or so, green olives will not only be responsible for a death, but also the mental instability and sexual promiscuity of a downtrodden sex worker once named Wheatgrape and now called Devin Rammer?

And now, what would have happened if Duduskus and Ferd did not share their love of olives.

The pizzas are split half and half. Pepperoni, bacon, and green olives on half, pepperoni, bacon, and mushroom on the other. Ferd likes her olives and Duduskus does not. They are both happy with their pizza. Dirty martinis are partaken by Ferd while Duduskus enjoys a simple tumbler of Diet Sunkist. They both enjoy their evening drinks. The hors d'oeuvres are replaced by communicative sessions between the two in which they discuss Wheatgrape and his future and the budding money market fund they've opened in his name that he will one day use to fund his schooling in epidemiology.

One day, Ferd and Duduskus do not get lit up on dirty martinis, but instead watch Downton Abbey before bedtime.

See? Turns out a lot better if just one member of the relationship likes olives. Chyeah. Can't argue with science. I may not understand science.

- Sergeant Popwell