Kristin: So what did you always want your nickname to be?
Brat: Bubbles. I thought everyone did.
Kristin: You thought everyone did??
Brat: Well. Yeah. Was I wrong?
Kristin: What gave you that idea?
Brat: You know it's funny. I read some article somewhere where the author bemoans the fact that she tried to nickname herself Bubbles in high school but it never caught on. From that, I determined that everyone wanted to be Bubbles.
Kristin: Hee!
Brat: I suppose it's rather a leap in logic.
Kristin: Rather.
Brat: AND she was the tramp of the group, what else can I say? I want to be the tramp.
Kristin: You can be the tramp if it makes you happy honey.
Brat: Well. Can I be the tramp who everyone thinks is a tramp because of the way she talks and dresses but doesn't really have sex with everyone?
Kristin: Sure. I can afford to be big about this.
Brat: Ok, then I'm all over it.
Kristin: Tramp is all about attitude, not action per se.
Brat: There used to be this admin who worked here who dressed tramp all the time. Very tramp. At WORK! I liked that. It's safe to dress tramp at work.
Kristin: Safe how exactly? I'd think that'd be about the unsafest place. Except for a bar. And a public restroom.
Brat: Well, no one can pin you to a pool table and later say you asked for it because you dressed like a tramp and be all vindicated for it by the jury.
Kristin: You have pool tables at work?
Brat: No. That's why it would be SAFE. Of course, I could be pinned to the foozball table...
Kristin: Ouch. Painful.
Brat: Heeeheee it's just wrong to find that funny.
Kristin: Wrong, but forgivable. Understandable, even.
Brat: "Ow. OW! Could you let up ok? I've got a puck in my ass!"
Kristin: If you ever say you have a puck in your ass again, I may have to cut you off.
Brat: Heeee!
Kristin: Besides, aren't you thinking of air hockey? Foozball has... a ball, I believe...
Brat: Yeah, they're not pucks are they? They're feet. Mutant feet. Right... pucks are the ball thing. I was thinking of the umm... sticks. I don't know.
Kristin: Argued yourself right into confusion there, methinks. Take a breather. Come on back when you're ready.
Brat: pant pant Ok. Ok. I'm ok.
Kristin: You're sure now?
Brat: Yeah I'm sure. I'm still hung up on tramp clothes though. You know one time my cousins almost didn't let me leave the house because the shirt I was wearing was clingy and low cut? ME! snicker
Kristin: Wow... not sure where to go with that one.
Brat: There's nowhere TO go with that one. Anyway, I was still smack dab in the middle of my tramp phase then, so. There.
Kristin: Ok - question. Worse to hide behind baggy clothes or wear tramp clothes but risk falling out of them?
Brat: How about tramp clothes that fit?
Kristin: Can they be qualified as tramp clothes if they fit? I thought that was part of the definition.
Brat: Nah. Tramp clothes leave little to the imagination, but they still preserve the imagination. Example: Gwyeth Paltrow at the Oscars = NOT tramp. Eliza Dushku in ANYTHING = Tramp.
Kristin: Gwyeth Paltrow at the Oscars = concave.
Brat: I just didn't need to see Gwyneth's breasts, really. No one needs to see mine either. But I want people to think they do. Think they need to, not think they see them.
Kristin: The clothes are only half of it though, no? You need the 'tude. You have to believe, and also project, that other people have a need to see your breasts.
Brat: Of course. You have to believe your breasts are all that before anyone else is going to buy it.
Kristin: And to be honest, that sounds like too much work to me. I don't even want to see my own breasts most of the time, let alone try to send brain waves to others indicating that they should need to see them.
Brat: The best thing about clothes is that they can provide satisfactory illusion that our breasts are so the delish.
Kristin: Me and the boobs never have hit it off though. I don't even have a cute personal nickname for them. They're just there... making me busty.
Brat: Bulldog, you must make nice with the boobs.
Kristin: Tough to do. And Bulldog somehow isn't working for me. Maybe this is why I never had a nickname. I always wind up hating them after about 45 seconds.
Brat: I think if you do a little boob-gazing you'll come to peace with yourself and be more happy with life. Can I call you Boobies?
Kristin: You may not.
Brat: Boobie Jackson the One-Armed Slingshot Afficianado from El Paso.
Kristin: Boobie Wan Kenobi.
Brat: Heee! Help me, Boobie Wan!
Kristin: You're my only hope!
Brat: Hee!
Kristin: Ok - 2 minute quicky and You Must Choose. Obi Wan or Yoda?
Brat: Yoda.
Kristin: YODA?
Brat: Just the right height.
Kristin: ROFLMAO
Brat: I hate beards, dude. Obi Wan has some serious scraggly chin shit going on.
Kristin: But he keeps it neat! That's right though. You have the beard thang.
Brat: Old Obi Wan? Not! And besides Yoda has ears you can grab hold of.
Kristin: ACK!
Brat: There's an image you won't lose soon, hmm?
Kristin: He's not the master of THAT! Oh man, I am sorry I brought this up...
Brat: I love Yoda for his mind. The things he can levitate with his mind.
Kristin: Ah HA! You just want him for his ability to bring you a beer without getting out from under the sheets!
Brat: Yes, he should be able to multi-task efficiently. Did I mention his ears?
Kristin: Yes. The ears. Check.
Brat: Ok, here's one for you: sex in space with Roger Moore or sex in mud with Vin Diesel?
Kristin: Mud and Vin. No question. Roger Moore does NOTHING for me.
Brat: Me neither, but I find the space thing compelling. Whereas mud makes me feel nasty. And not in a good way.
Kristin: I still wouldn't sleep with Roger Moore. Young Sean Connery, sure, no problem, I'm first in line. But the Moore? Not.
Brat: I'm sticking with the space thing. I'd close my eyes, be careful not to touch his arms, and pretend he's Vin.
Kristin: My imagination isn't that good and Roger's stringy.
Brat: Okay, then, doggy style in space. Even easier to not touch and not see. I'm still caught up on the space. Weightlessness. I mean, that's different.
Kristin: Ugh. I'm nauseous.
Brat: It's the weightlessness. Gets me every time too.
Kristin: Weightless and being Roger Moore's bitch? Ulp - gotta run to the can...
Brat: Ok, ok. But if I'd said choose quickly: sex in space with Han Solo or sex in mud with Vin Diesel, it wouldn't have had the same impact. No wait, that's better. Vin could make mud sexy.
Kristin: Han! HAN! HHHHAAAANNN!
Brat: See, NOW I'm rethinking the mud thing, and you're up in space. We're off today somehow.
Kristin: It's fascinating though. That you could change one of the four factors and I could have such a complete and utter turn around. You too, come to think of it.
Brat: Yeah, isn't that weird? What was I thinking, Moore over Diesel in ANY venue? I must be out of coffee.
Kristin: Goddamn girl - you were ready to do the sticky polka with ROGER MOORE and now you don't want to get it on with the roguish Han Solo?? I thought it was all about the space factor. I don't get this at all...
Brat: It was all about the space factor, and then I realized it's sex, and what's the diff if it has gravity or not especially if it has to be done doggy style just to be stomached. There have to be limits.
Kristin: Is what I was saying!
Brat: And you were sooooo right.
Kristin: Roger Moore, man... that's going just about to the edge...
Brat: And Obi Wan was what?
Kristin: He wasn't no Roger Moore, I'll tell ya that much...
Brat: No but he was OLD! I mean, I had fantasies about him being my grandpa for crissakes!
Kristin: Besides... Obi Wan and Yoda sort of... work together, you know? You could actually be in a situation where you had to choose, cuz, you know, they might be in a bar on Tattooine somewhere and there you are, all drunk...
Brat: Roger Moore -- no fantasies ever. None.
Kristin: Well, that's true for me I know. I'm not so sure about you.
Brat: In a bar on Tatooine, totally drunk, I'd go for the blue flute player. He's cute. With beer goggles.
Kristin: THICK beer goggles.
Brat: Wait. Wait. I know you just speared me, but I'm not sure on what? Roger Moore being non-fantastical, or Obi Wan being old enough to be my grandpa?
Kristin: Moi? I didn't spear you.
Brat: You did. Don't bow out. Come on, I'm set to be all confrontational. Which was it? Huh? The age dig or the bad taste dig?
Kristin: You said "Roger Moore -- no fantasies ever. None." I'm just not so sure I believe you. Seems to me if you wanted a sex in space scenario you could have come up with someone you had some fantasy about. Ergo, it's possible there were shameful Roger Moore... rogering fantasies, since that's who you proposed.
Brat: No, not. Really. I was thinking sex in space, and then trying to think of any movie I'd have seen such a thing, and the only thing that came to mind was Mad's take on Moonraker.
Kristin: Ahhhhh OK. I'll let you off for now. That seems a likely scenario.
Brat: Well almost likely. I confess I've actually seen the movie, although I usually avoid Moore Bond like the plague.
Kristin: And well you should. That stuff's catching.
Brat: nod nod
Kristin: Death Choice. 60's Captain Kirk or post third season Commander Riker?
Brat: Oh God, that one's tough. I told you I had daddy fantasies about Kirk, so choosing him would just be WRONG. But Riker has SUCH a rod up his ass, I can't imagine how horrible sex would be. Although by third season, he'd lightened up a bit but OH NO! NO! He had that face shit! He is evil. Evil!
Kristin: He was also 60 lbs heavier! This may be the one that breaks ye!
Brat: I don't care about the poundage. Kirk was no Ethan Hawke either, you know. He wore a girdle.
Kristin: Oh, I know it.
Brat: I'm going to have to go with Kirk though. I feel dirty. Dirty.
Kristin: As well you should.
Brat: In addition to the tribble growing on Riker's face, he has those. Eyes. shiver
Kristin: You have a problem with his eyes!?
Brat: Hell yes! Blue eyes like that are mutant. Freaky.
Kristin: I would have though the skank factor would have been enough, but apparently the blue eye issue wins hands down.
Brat: What, you think Riker is more of a skank than Kirk? Kirk fucked green people!
Kristin: Yeah... it's a fair fight to be sure.
Brat: Riker's not a skank. You can't be a skank if you're incapable of getting any.
Kristin: You're thinking of Wesley.
Brat: He did NOT get any with Wesley. The doctor would have kicked his rod-humping-ass.
Kristin: No!! Oh my God - my eyes! My EYES!!!! Christ what an image!
Brat: hee
Kristin: What I was getting at before you threw that acid-laced concept at my unarmed imagination was that Wesley never got any.
Brat: I find it highly more believable that gangly, brown-eyed, John-Boy wannabe Wesley gets laid than I do that rod-up-the-ass freaky eyes from hell Riker does.
Kristin: Well, I'd have to go with you on that. Though the idea of gettin' it on with Will Wheaton gives me hives.
Brat: Yes, but come on. Death is not an option: Wesley or Riker?
Kristin: Oh cripes, now look what I started. Riker.
Brat: You are KIDDING ME! Yuck!
Kristin: No. Sadly no. I just get the feeling Wesley would crawl around on me like a bug. Overeager and... a definite bad kisser.
Brat: Well, that speaks volumes of your lack of hooba for Wheaton. It doesn't... speak volumes... about your hooba for Riker... does it?
Kristin: GOD NO!
Brat: Oh thank god!
Kristin: I just get turned SO far off by the thought of adolescent boys fumbling with Da Chest.
Brat: We're back to your boobies.
Kristin: My boobies are the center of all conversation, everywhere. Didn't you get the memo?
Brat: Must have missed it.
Kristin: Wesley looks so wimpy and weak and... just wimpy. Like he wouldn't be able to hoist the boys, you know?
Brat: Hoist the boys! Heee! That's my litmus test now.
Kristin: Are you man enough? Can YOU Hoist the Boys!?
Brat: Zactly. That's perfect. Thanks for that.
Kristin: Not a problem. Anything to help the cause.
