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.
idiotpruf 