August 11, 2009
a phrase I don’t like
weak tea, or pretty weak tea, or that’s pretty weak tea.
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comments:
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- Carole Corlew: Shelia. Happy no big deal day. I would start your very own post but this phone is in semi rebellion.
what about ‘weak sauce’?
I think I can get behind that.
I prefer; that’s weak.
or
that’s some pretty weak shit.
or
that’s some weak as shit, bitch.
something along those lines.
I really really don’t like weak tea. Tea needs to be strong, rich, golden, decent. Only Irish blended tea has those qualities, I have found. English tea is terrible. Terrible.
The phrase does not bother me so much.
I remember using weak sauce an awful lot in high school with the occasional intensifier fucking. I don’t believe, however, that bitch was in vogue yet.
In my world, bitch has always been in vogue.
I like strong coffee, or damn strong coffee. Everybody tells me my coffee is damn strong.
Actual weak tea is worse than the phrase.
I’ll admit it: I’ve never heard anyone say that’s some weak tea. Weird. I’m pretty sure if I did hear it in passing, I’d raise an eyebrow in disapproval.
I’ve never heard this expression, either.
I admit, though, that sometimes I brew my tea up pretty weak.
“What’s with the motherfuckers who share teabags?”
Do you like that phrase, Deron?
Yes, it is very comforting.
“What’s with the motherfuckers who share Lipton’s teabags?” Or Pickwick. These people cannot be helped, Deron. It is important to understand that.
Yes, Lucy. You are correct. We might as well not even try.
Somebody from Lipton will probably show up to offer us all a free teabag between every two clusterflockers.
Let’s get a restraining order.
Yes. A pre-emptive restraining order against a popular teabag manufacturer, on the offchance that they might offer us some free samples. Lets.
Ok. I left out the apostrophe. Ok.
I think you need to do it, since I plugged up the plumbing at the police station.
Ok. I suppose we need a lawyer. Jesus. You take a few days off of Clusterflock and then you come back and it gets complicated very quickly. I will make some phone calls.
Thank you. This is too important to let slide.
How about “that’s weak chai tea”?
you little bitch.
That’s weak tea, man.
irregardless.
I’m okay with the phrase, but, I don’t like my tea too strong as I drink it black and strong black tea is always so bitter/tanic.
Now, give me a nice cup of Oolong with a side helping of Liquorice and I’m a happy bunny!
Up where I live, they don’t say ‘weak tea’ unless they are talking about weak tea, so I’m buffaloed.
I like my tea like I like my coffee (generally). Medium-ish. No sugar. No milk.
But we’re talking metaphorically, yes?
Words I don’t like:
staycation
app
Word I like: buffalo, as a verb.
Phrases that make me want to inflict slow, painful death:
Do me a flavor?
What a co-eenkee-dink!
Y’all know Lucy? Yeah. Well. Girl’s flat-out buffaloed by half of what she hears and sees here, but she don’t give a rat’s red rear. Girl’s got her head screwed on tight and that’s a fact.
Moving into phrases featuring animals rather than beverages, I like:
It was so quiet you could hear a mouse pissing on cotton.
Sheila, I think you meant that’s a fack.
And you’re right. That Lucy’s smarter’n a sack o’ snakes.
I’m just hoping there is never a head to head mudfight between me and the sack o’ snakes to find out about that. I would be willing to concede in such circumstances.
Weren’t you and I supposed to have some kind of mudfight at one point? A smackdown of sorts? I don’t remember the details. Surely not pooping. What was it?
Yes. I believe it was to be a fuck-in-the-mud, where we try to outfuck each other for the edification of everybody. We discussed the possibility of making it more sisterly, before agreeing to fly with the inherently competitive nature of such an enterprise. It’s just more fun that way.
Oh dear. I can see my last comment needs some clarification. That would be, a competition of verbal profanity, in the mud. In t shirts.
I seem to recall some talk of some friend of India’s mother perhaps joining us. Yes, I believe so. Though she has not been formally approached, to my knowledge.
There are no snakes in Ireland.
But there are badgers.
Those two facts are pretty closely related.
Rumour has it that the badgers conceded that snakes were smarter, which led to the snakes becoming smug and just laid around all day, thinking about how smart they were. So it was an easy job when the Welshman finally cleared them out. Now all the badgers have to worry about are hirsute Texans, driving Ferraris, zooming along our narrow country roads.
My Ferrari has a badger guard.
Yes, we are all keen to see it, here. Anyway, our badgers are hairier than The Texan.
Lucy, that is a crafty badger trick. I like that. Cultivate an ill-founded sense of superiority in others and allow them to grow smug and lethargic. That does appeal to the conniver in me.
Ah, now I remember. Thank you, Lucy. I would like to request that we not include badgers in our competition. Neither do I want tasmanian devils, hyenas, or wolverines. Just the two of us, along with India’s elderly entrant.
No snakes.