“Look here,” I said, “I’m not sure you get the point of it.”
“Oh, I get the point of it,” he said.
“Not at all,” I returned. “If you did, you’d know what I meant when I said ‘get the point of it’.”
He put his head in his hands in a dramatic fashion.
“Can you please make some sense?” he tried again.
“Okay, look here,” I said, preparing to go over all the details again. “There’s no way this cup”–and I indicated a 32 oz. canteen–“can survive a 500 ft. drop into a canyon full of the rockiest rocks ever.”
“It doesn’t say it can do that,” he returned sharply.
I gave him the professor face. I do that from time to time, you know. It can be rather effective, too. #scary
“It says it can on the cup,” I said.
So, I did.
And I quote: Able to withstand up to a 500 ft. drop!
“It doesn’t say anything about rocks being at the bottom,” he said.
“Well,” I said, “that’s my problem, see. At the bottom of every canyon, there’s rocks, double-see, and I think it’s telling they left out the rocks bit, triple-see. It’s kinda like saying the cup can survive the fall, only if there are no rocks at the bottom. But there are ALWAYS rocks at the bottom of a canyon.”
“Are you for real?
I stopped. The professor may or may not have been getting a little cranky here. #timetoriot
“Last time I checked,” I said, “I found that I was very real–and brutally scary.”
“Look,” he said, “if you’re really worried about this cup surviving a 500 ft. drop, then there’s something wrong in your life.”
I put the cup back on the shelf.
“This professor, you must understand, does not buy lying cups.”