Bryan calls information and asks for “the John Kerry for President National Headquarters.” There is a pause. The operator says something. Bryan responds, “No. With a ‘K.’ John Kerry… No… It’s K-E-R-R-Y.”

My five-year-old nephew thinks butts are scary. I know this because, when asked to tell a scary story around the campfire, his stories are always about butts. These butts are massive; they darken the night sky. They produce thunderous foreboding flatulence, warning unsuspecting campers that giant feces are about to rain down upon their flimsy dome tents. Actually, according to Trevor, they don’t rain down so much as “plop.” But, still.

Two good things from Defective Yeti:

• “Inguinal” means ” Of, relating to, or located in the groin.”
• My barista is jittery and high-strung. I find this comforting, like a barber with well-coifed hair.

Me: That bar’s called The Caucus.

Bryan: Come on in and argue for eight hours. By the end of the evening, we must reach consensus.

At the bar, Laura leans against a column to reach for her purse. The column falls against the wall with a plastic thud.

L: So that’s not attached to anything.

B: No, it’s not so much a structural element as a…

M: Big plastic column, made to look like a structural element, that will actually fall over the moment someone touches it.

B: Yeah, every bar needs one of those.

L: Good for drunk people.

M: Keeps ’em guessing.

L: Do motorcycles run on gasoline?

M: Yeah.

L: Where does the gas go?

M: … In the gas tank.

L: Well, yeah, of course.

M: You asked.

L: But, I mean, where? Like does it fill up into the handlebars or something?

R: That doesn’t seem like it would be safe.

M: What did you think it ran on?

S: They should make bikes that run on pee.

L: Like you’d pee into a tube and the bike uses it as fuel?

M: Yuck.

R: I want a car that runs on pee.

M: You’re a dreamer, baby.

This businesswoman is waiting for the bus. She wears a slim black suit with kitten heels, and her hair is pulled into a neat bun at the nape of her neck. She removes a dark compact from her pocket and peers at herself in the mirror, then begins picking at a zit on her chin.

Bryan and I are going to Amsterdam later this year, so I need to pick up a Dutch phrasebook. I want to learn a few key phrases like, “I seem to be bleeding from my ears,” and “I don’t speak Dutch.” Bryan points out that it’s funnier to use a more complex phrase when you’re telling someone you don’t speak their language. We kicked around a few ideas. “I’m terribly sorry, I can’t understand you. Dutch is, most unfortunately, not my native language,” and so on. We finally settled on, “I offer a halfhearted apology for not understanding Dutch. I’m American, so I didn’t bother to learn your little language. Where is the nearest McDonald’s?”

Our flight out of San Francisco was delayed and we had to go through multiple security check points before we finally got on a plane. At said checkpoints, they make you drink any fluid you have in your carry on to prove it’s not bomb-related.

Bryan: Do you have the flask on you?

Me: I packed it. I didn’t want to have to swill vodka before 8a.m.

Bryan: Until tomorrow.

Me: Exactly.