Horseplay

One of the things that sort of sucks about turning 30 and living so far away from home, is that it's tough to recreate the familiarity that breeds "yo mama" jokes.

It's tough to just start clowning your co-workers or new friends about their moms, or their lisp, or their wack-ass dress style once you reach a certain age and position. For the most part, those days are gone.

But thankfully, I still keep in regular contact with my boys from back home to keep myself grounded. One of them, my oldest friend E (really, there's pictures of us together in diapers), still finds the time to indulge my childish streak.

I'm sure this is only funny to me but, wow, I need to post something today to fill in the gaps. Here's an excerpt from a running text message dialogue we had yesterday afternoon. E, a pretty spindly dude for much of his life, had some news to share with me:

E: "For the first time in my life, I got on the scale and the numberd(sic) were in the 170s. Thanks. Goodnight."

B: "Once you finally make it all the way through puberty, you'll get fuzz on your nuts too."

E: "Just because you look like Greg Oden don't mean you aren't wet behind the ears."

B: "Don't get mad because you got afraid of having a wet dream. You didn't do anything wrong, son."

E: "And don't get mad because you have breasts. Get in there a(sic) make some Dick Gregory."

B: "I have pecs. You can't just get those thru(sic) puberty. You have to spend some time on the bench press, pumpkin."

Ok. Now I'll get back to regularly scheduled rants about gay marriage rights (kudos to Vermont and DC, by the way), right wingnuttery, and Tyler Hansbrough. I just needed a brief trip down memory lane.