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Sunday, February 05, 2006
It's called Nashvegas, thank you.
Boobish story submitted by Yank in Rebel Land from NYC (trust me, if I were making these up I wouldn't use the word "Yank" or "Rebel", since I don't write country music for a living and these aren't part of my everyday vocabulary):
"Many years ago I made a trip to Nashville, Tennessee. When I got to my room, I called room service to have an iron and board sent to my room (yes, back in those days they weren’t common in every room).
A man answered the phone. I said: ”Can you send an iron and board to room 408?” He asked what sounded like: “What for?” I answer: “To iron my shirt.” He comes back with: “OK, but what for?” “To go to a meeting.” I said, slightly irritated. Again, he says: “What for?” “What for!?” I’m now getting annoyed.
A colleague of mine is in the room watching me near the boiling point and calls for my attention. He says, “I think the guy is saying, what floor?”
Ahhh! “4th Floor”, I said. “Thank you”, he said.
So, am I the boob for not understanding him, or is he the boob for not knowing room 408 was on the 4th floor?"
Since you asked, Yank, my initial reaction was you were the boob here...but you're right, the fool should've known what floor you were on. Those Nashville twangs are darn right tricky, ain't they? On that note, let's get some boob-ish stories that occurred outside of the South, k?
"Many years ago I made a trip to Nashville, Tennessee. When I got to my room, I called room service to have an iron and board sent to my room (yes, back in those days they weren’t common in every room).
A man answered the phone. I said: ”Can you send an iron and board to room 408?” He asked what sounded like: “What for?” I answer: “To iron my shirt.” He comes back with: “OK, but what for?” “To go to a meeting.” I said, slightly irritated. Again, he says: “What for?” “What for!?” I’m now getting annoyed.
A colleague of mine is in the room watching me near the boiling point and calls for my attention. He says, “I think the guy is saying, what floor?”
Ahhh! “4th Floor”, I said. “Thank you”, he said.
So, am I the boob for not understanding him, or is he the boob for not knowing room 408 was on the 4th floor?"
Since you asked, Yank, my initial reaction was you were the boob here...but you're right, the fool should've known what floor you were on. Those Nashville twangs are darn right tricky, ain't they? On that note, let's get some boob-ish stories that occurred outside of the South, k?
