Bored of corporate bullshit today, during a catch up I dropped the phrase “why don’t we ferment that idea yogurt in the thought yurt?” and the chaos that ensued was the highlight of my year.
"Haha, well, where I'm from we would call it a barmy-cobby-rollybap"
"Bread"
"Everton growing up, but all North-West clubs, I do have a soft spot for Alty. England too. And Scotland."
"Spurs"
"100 duck-sized horses would be tough, but I'll go for horse-sized duck"
"Neither"
doing all that stuff myself is trivial to me because I'm smarter than you. I don't trust that a bot that's good enough for your purposes would be good enough for mine because, again, I'm smarter than you.
His eyes were a striking blue, like blue Gatorade, and his cheeks were flushed, like red Gatorade. His demeanor was mysterious, yet refreshing, like yellow Gatorade. And his shirt was the hue of orange Gatorade