The last time Z and I shared a meal, it was a year ago. He had switched, just a couple of months before, from being my co-worker to working in Palo Alto, and I drove up from San Jose to join him for jummah at Stanford and lunch. Or was jummah during a different visit? Regardless, there was food involved – we ate at a diner that, much to my excitement, served cranberry juice and Belgian waffles and french fries, and all I could possibly need in order to ensure I would never be hungry again.
It was only a few days after his attempted “ATTAAAAAACK” on the secretary’s chocolate stash, and, in sympathy, I presented him with a ziplock bag filled with some of my own leftover Halloween candy.
Walking out of the diner together, we stopped to laugh at the street sign under which I had parked my car: WELCOME TO THE PURPLE ZONE.
Months later, references to the “purple zone” (and our favorite inside-joke word: MUTHAFUCKLE) still grant us hilarity. A conversation as recently as August went like this:
Yasminay: we should write a book together some day, you and i
it shall be called – ready? ready?
Mutha Fuckles in the Purple Zone!
Z: what will it be about?
Yasminay: our escapades and general all-around crackheadedness
and tips and tricks on how to be as crackheadedly cool as us (but of course, no one would ever be)
Z: well, it could be advice on how to try
and not fuckle it up too bad :-)
Like all great words, MUTHAFUCKLE was born of typos. FICKLE became FUCKLE (became BUCKLE) became MUTHAFUCKLE, and a new addition to the all-star crackstar vocabulary was created.
Despite nearly-daily GMail conversations and the fact that he’s now down the street from where I work, we hadn’t managed to sit down and chit-chat in person in nearly a year. So, on Monday, Z and I finally met up for dinner at our favorite Desi restaurant, where we devoured…well, everything.
Thanks to daily instant-messaging, it felt like hanging out with a good friend (which he is) whom I see all the time (which I do not). Conversation flowed smoothly through topics including family, mutual friends, Pakistan, law suckool, cars, work, and – of course – food.
Driving home at the end of the evening, I was disappointed to realize I had forgotten to pass along some of this year’s leftover Halloween candy.
Meanwhile, though, I am still laughing at conversations like the following:
Yasminay: s/he uses convoluted jargon to sound all essmahrt
it’s funny cuz lawyers (like other technical fields) are supposed to write clearly to get the point across
everything you need, nothing you don’t
but there’s just some concepts you can’t express except with words that other professions don’t use
so, in conclusion, it is invariably a stereotype that those in the profession of conveying legal services, write or otherwise communicate in a convoluted fashion, to sound ishmart.
Yasminay: that’s RIGHT. INVARIABLY!
why you gotta obfuscate for
Yasminay: what does that mean?
i like INDUBITABLY
Z: it means incontestible
Z: you and i have to play scrabulous on facebook
I don’t know how to properly end this post, except to say that the world is trying to convince me to play scrabble on facebook, and I will continue resisting and refusing. STOP IT, MUTHAFUCKLES.