“Tina is my baby girl. She’s my sister from another mother of a different color. I’d do 25 to life for her. She is down like four flat tires.”—Tracy Morgan (via) (via megalong) (via falulatonks) (via 30rockthings)
A typical exchange between me and a Nottingham check-out clerk:
Clerk: “Jumpy cashmere burgles?”
Me: “The… Pardon me?”
Clerk: “Yaburgles. Jaunty cashnit.”
Me: “Sorry, you… what?”
Clerk [reaching for the panic-button under the counter]: “Cash back. On your purchases. Do you want any.”
Basically, the rule seems to be that I don’t understand what anybody is saying to me until they say it three times. Where’s the iPhone app that untangles funny accents and tells me, in a soothing, robotic voice, that although I’m hearing “laughing cormorants from Gomorrah,” what they’re saying is, “we’ll have more in stock tomorrow.” I would really like that app, because I don’t know how many more uneasy exchanges and blank stares I can brazen out at the supermarket.