“So one day my landlord was down in the basement threatening my furnace-”
“Your landlord was threatening your furnace?”
“Yes.”
“With what?”
“With a rifle, now can I please finish my story?”
“But doesn’t he know that if he shoots the furnace the entire building will blow up?”
“No it won’t.”
“Yes it WILL. The bullet will hit the furnace, gas will enter the air and catch on fire, and everyone will be blown up. All this will happen in an instant. It’s common knowledge.”
“Okay, whatever Mr. Smarty Pants.”
“I’m NOT Mr. Smarty Pants, you just don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Yes I do, I’m telling a story. Can I finish? Sheesh. So anyway, my landlord was threatening the furnace with a rifle so I threw myself on him, a shot rang out, ricocheted off the walls, and hit me in the leg, and that’s why I have a wooden leg.”
“You don’t have a wooden leg. You’re just a flaming liar.”
“Prevaracator.”
“It’s the same thing!”
“No. A prevaracator is a liar. A liar is someone who lies.”
“I can’t believe you. I can’t believe I’m sitting here listening to this. You’re some sort of word association moron.”
“Idiot.”
“They mean the same thing! God, I can’t take this any more. You’re driving me insane.”
“Now that just makes NO sense. You drive cars, not people.”
“ERG. That’s it.”
And as the sane sucker reached for the knife on the table, the liar pulled out a gun and shot him.
“That didn’t happen.”
“Yes it did.”
“You’re such a liar.”
“No I’m not.”
“Yes you are.”
“No I’m not.” . . .