Conversations Emanating From A Disturbed Mind

(NOTE: Based on time elapsed since the posting of this entry, the BS-o-meter calculates this is 8.442% likely to be something that Ferrett now regrets.)

Yesterday, Gini smooched our girlfriend Bec, then and broke out in a rash so nasty it required two Benadryl for Gini not to scratch her lips off.  Bec apologized.
“It’s okay,” Gini said.  “You were using the same Burt’s Bees lip balm as always. I would never in a million years have guessed that would give me a rash.”  Then her phone rang, and she went off to talk to a client.  By the time she got back, Bec and I had had A Talk.
“We’ve been thinking,” I said.  “And you’re underselling yourself.  We’re pretty sure you could do it in five hundred, tops.”
“…What?”
“A million years is a long time,” I explained.  “That’s, like, twenty thousand of your lifetimes to date.  If you’d really thought about it, I’m sure you could knock it out of the park in a few centuries.”
“…knock what?”
“Guessing what would give you a rash.  Admittedly, it’s pretty specific, but if you do it full-time…”
“Wait a minute!” Gini said.  “I get bored after five minutes of guessing games with you!  I don’t want to spend the next million years endlessly guessing what might give me a rash!  That’s a horrible fate, wandering around for all eternity having to do nothing but wondering what might give me hives!”
“I’ve taken that into account,” I replied serenely.  “I figure it’ll take you two centuries of wandering the Earth, resenting your status, lamenting to a cold and uncaring God the strange and inexplicable task he has bequeathed to you and you alone.  After that: three centuries of daily guessing.  Tops.”
Soon after that, we got into a debate about whether we were having a debate or an argument.  Good times, good times.

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