idiotpruf

Don’t Answer; It’s a Trap

You’re sitting there casually watching the chick flick of her choice. It’s not a bad movie; you’re enjoying its whimsical humor. About two-thirds through the movie, just as you’ve become emotionally invested in the characters, she suddenly turns to you and pops this landmine under your feet: do you think Julia Roberts is prettier than me?

The following conversation results:

Her: Do you think Julia Roberts is prettier than me?

(You hear the landmine’s triggering mechanism click, and you’re afraid to move.)

You: Um…I don’t know.

Her: It’s a simple question. Do you think she’s prettier than me or not?

You: Of course not, you’re much prettier.

(You think you may have defused the landmine, but you still feel trepidatious about taking a step.)

Her: Why are you being a liar?

(Nope; still undefused.)

Her: If you think she’s pretty, you can say so.

You: Okay. I think Julia Roberts is attractive.

Her: Which is it? Is she pretty, or is she attractive?’

You: What’s the difference?

Her: If you don’t know the difference between the two words, how can you properly use either one?

You: I guess I would say she’s very attractive.

Her: Oh, so now she’s very attractive. Is she gorgeous?

You: I guess to some guys.

Her: What kind of guys?

You: Guys who…have the ability of sight.

(Several moments of uncomfortable silence.)

Her: I suppose you wish I looked like Julia Roberts.

You: No. I don’t need a woman who’s gorgeous; you’re fine.

(The sheer stupidity of the statement hits you immediately; an impending feeling that you won’t make it out of this alive is beginning to set in.)

Her: Do you want to know what I wish?

You: I sincerely doubt it.

Her: I wish you looked like Hugh Grant.

You: I wish I looked like Hugh Grant.

Her: You do?

You: Sure. Then I could find a girlfriend who looks like Julia Roberts.

(Deafening silence. You can’t stand on the landmine much longer before your legs give out.)

Her: Maybe I should just make an appointment with a plastic surgeon tomorrow and get all my horrible flaws fixed.

You: Don’t bother; I don’t think the plastic surgeon can fix bitchy.

(Boom! Body parts are everywhere.)

Don’t feel too bad; you never stood a chance. It was an old, faulty Soviet landmine; it was going to go off no matter what.