A neighbor arrives with a warning about diseased squirrels dropping poisoned food into her yard. Her dog had been very sick, and she didn’t want anyone else to go through what she’d experienced.

Neighbor:
I wanted to warn you.  My dog has been very sick.

Programmer:
Mine too.

Neighbor:
No, my dog went to the vet.

Programmer:
Mine too.  Eight times I think.

Neighbor:
But my dog nearly died.

Programmer:
Mine too.  Twice.

Neighbor:
Really?

Programmer:
Yes.  And he had his blood replaced, twice.

Neighbor:
Honestly!  I was just trying to be helpful.  I don’t know why you have to be so competitive.

Curtain.

Minister
(After calling the deceased by two different wrong names)
… And don’t forget to attend the wonderful reception back at the house.

Programmer
Hmm…

Lady sitting in the pew next to the Programmer
WONDERFUL ?
Isn’t that setting the bar a little high?
I mean, I’m gonna be kinda disappointed if they don’t have an elephant and a pair of performing seals at the lunch buffet.

CURTAIN

A programmer enters a moderately high brow Greek restaurant in a moderately high brow neighborhood.  The type of neighborhood that fines people for parking in front of the residents’ houses whilst dining at  local restaurants.  He sits down, and waits for his luncheon guests.

Greek Waiter:
Hello and welcome.  My name is Mmmrmpf-Mmmrburgh.

Programmer:
I beg your pardon?

Greek Waiter:
Mmmrmpf-Mmmrburgh.

Programmer:
Um, yes…

(He uses the only Greek name he knows)

Thank you… Nico?

Greek Waiter:
Yes?  Are you waiting for someone?  Can I get you anything?

Programmer:
If I were a beer here, what kind of beer would I be?

Greek Waiter:
I’m sorry sir?

Programmer:
If I were a beer here, what kind of beer would I be?

Greek Waiter:
I’m sorry sir, I can not hear you.

Programmer:
(very loudly)
If I were a beer here, what kind of beer would I be?

Greek Waiter:
No, I don’t know what you’re talking about.

Programmer:
Sorry.  If I wanted to order a beer here, what’s the selection.

Greek Waiter:
Mythos.

Programmer:
Mythos ?

Greek Waiter:
Yes, Mythos.  Mythos beer.

Programmer:
What kind of a beer is Mythos

Greek Waiter:
This is a Greek restaurant.  It’s Greek beer.

Programmer:
But what kind of beer is  it?  Light, dark, made from wheat, extra hoppy?  What kind of beer is it.

Greek Waiter:
It’s the only beer we serve.  Do you want one?

Programmer:
Well, under those circumstances, yes, absolutely, bring me a Mythos beer.

Time passes.  Eventually Nico returns with a tray holding a glass and a bottle of beer.

Greek Waiter:
Your beer sir.

Programmer:
This is Mythos beer?  Why does the label say Hilas?

Greek Waiter:
That’s because Mythos beer comes from Greece.  Hellas is Greek for Greece.

Programmer:
Not Hellas, the label says Hilas.  The back of the bottle says that the brewery was founded in Athens by Nico Hilas, and the beer is named after him.  What happened to the brand of beer you said you were bringing?

Greek Waiter:
Enjoy your Mythos sir.

The other luncheon guests arrive.

Another Programmer:
Trying one of those Greek beers?  Specialty of the house?  What’s it called?

Programmer:
Mythos, they call it Mythos beer.  You should order one.

Another Programmer:
Is Mythos any good?

Programmer:
I don’t know.  They won’t bring me one.  But this other stuff isn’t too bad.

CURTAIN

Sandwich Specialist:
Hello and welcome to Subway! What kind of sandwich would you like.

Programmer:
Umm, I’ll have a foot long tuna on…  What’s that new bread?  I think it has ‘cheese’ in the name?

Sandwich Specialist:
Yes, a foot long tuna. What kind of bread?

Programmer:
Umm, it’s one of the new breads.  It has ‘cheese’ in the name.  I’d like to try that.

Sandwich Specialist:
What kind of bread?

Programmer:
Look, I don’t remember the name, but it has the word ‘cheese’ in it.

Sandwich Specialist:
There is a list of the new breads on the sign right in front of you.

Programmer:
Yes, but I’m not wearing my spectacles, and can’t read the sign.  The new bread has the word ‘cheese’ in the title.

Sandwich Specialist:
Urban Cheese?

Programmer:
Urban Cheese?

Sandwich Specialist:
Yes, Urban Cheese.

Programmer:
You mean like cheese from dairy cows raised in the city?

Sandwich Specialist:
No… Not urban cheese.  URBAN cheese.

Programmer:
I don’t understand.  You mean urban, instead of rural cheese?

Sandwich Specialist:
UR…  Ban… Cheese!

(a second Sandwich Specialist appears with a felt pen and begins to writes on the back a promotional poster and shows the result to the Programmer)

Second Sandwich Specialist:
See.  URBAN cheese.

Programmer:
Oh.  You mean Herb and Cheese?

Sandwich Specialist:
Yes!  Urban Cheese.  Urban Cheese!

Programmer:
Maybe I’ll just have it on white bread then.

CURTAIN

Sandwich Specialist:
Hello and welcome to Subway! What kind of sandwich would you like.

Programmer:
Umm, I’ll have a foot long tuna on wheat.

Sandwich Specialist:
Yes, a foot long tuna. What kind of bread?

Programmer:
Wheat.
(Looks at a sign promoting ‘Omega 3 Wheat Bread)
Umm, what’s the difference between wheat bread and Omega 3 wheat bread?

Sandwich Specialist:
It’s wheat bread. There is no difference.

Programmer:
But the sign says that it’s the new Omega 3 Wheat Bread.

Sandwich Specialist:
No. There is no difference. They are both wheat bread.

Programmer:
But the sign actually says that Omega 3 Wheat Bread is both new and different.

Sandwich Specialist:
No.  They are exactly the same.   The sign is new.  Only the sign is different.  What kind of bread would you like.

Programmer:
I guess I’ll try white bread this time.

CURTAIN

Everyone used to drive pickup trucks. Now not so much. On the one hand you were never in charge of driving everyone anywhere as part of the car pool. On the other hand, you always spent your Saturday mornings ‘Helping Friends Move Things.’ You also spent a disproportionate amount of time listening to the girlfriend ‘explain to you’ – some might say berate – why my choice of vehicle served to undercut her image with… I never really understood with whom the actual undercutting was taking place, but there you are. Automotive undercutting was underway with someone, somewhere, at all times.

Driving on the freeway a few weeks after the break up with the afore mentioned girlfriend (the story sounds better if it’s on the drive back from her place immediately after the break up, but it actually was a couple of weeks later.) I was stuck in LA bumper to bumper, going no place fast, traffic. The three gardeners in the beat up pick up to my right made the internationally recognized gesture for ‘roll down your window’ and began negotiating with me to buy my truck. They seemed pretty eager, and offered me cash, but then they asked what year it was. Blissfully ignorant I said, “It’s a 1993.”

Horrified, they exchanged meaningful glances and their leader replied, “It’s a 1993? Man, chore truck is in bad shape. We all thought it was an 86. No thanks.” Then the traffic picked up and they drove away.

This gave me pause to think. I mean if my truck was too beat up for consideration by three, possibly undocumented, gardeners in an equally derelict vehicle then perhaps I should consider purchase of newer transportation. The idea was accepted in a positive, indeed one might say enthusiastic, fashion by most of my friends who advised that any new vehicle would need to enhance my marketability to clients. The new car would need to say; dependable, not flashy, responsible, and successful but not so much that a client might think I was over billing. So I went with a Volvo S-40 coupe.

The week after purchasing the car I was down at my client CPM-IX. Actually they didn’t manufacture anything. They printed tickets, but they were still crazy. So maybe they should have been CPT-1. The president of CPT-1 saw me arrive that morning. Walked over to me and said, “Is this your new car? Didn’t you used to drive that green pickup?” When I said yes he replied, “Good for you. When you finish here today stop by Phil’s office, he wants to talk to you.” Phil was the vice president who had brought me on as a consultant.

So I finished up my traditionally wacky day at CPT-1, listened dumbstruck as they explained their business procedures, made no real forward progress on their project, took note of the time I would bill them for the visit, and dropped by Phil’s office. Phil shook my hand, told me what a pleasure it had been to work with me, said that the ‘Old Man’ had seen my new car, and had decided that they were paying me too much, and now I was fired. They would later bring me back, and fire me again 3 times the following week, but that’s not part of the car story.

Apparently the ‘Old Man’ reasoned that if I could afford a new car they must be paying me way too much money. As Phil put a fatherly hand on my shoulder and eased me out the front door I remember saying something to the effect that CPT-1 wasn’t paying me too much. There were these lunatics in San Diego who were throwing wheelbarrow loads of money at me for practically nothing, and they were paying for the new car. This argument had little affect on Phil, and he waved at me pleasantly as he closed the high security, bullet proof glass door in my face.

So time passed and I helped friends move less, but helped them car pool more, for several years. Then it came time to plant a maple tree in my front garden. I swear that as I was placing the order with the nursery/tree farm over the phone I actually thought that I could just put the tree in the back of the truck and, as long as it was covered with some sort of a tarp, everything would be fine. Then I remembered that I didn’t own the truck any more, and hadn’t for at least 5 years. But since I’d ordered the ‘small,’ 6 foot tree, instead of the medium, 12 foot tree, I thought that I might be able to fit it into my car. After all I had the big Volvo trunk with the fold-down rear seats, and the fold-forward front seat on the passenger side. It would probably work.

It took a while for the special order maple tree to arrive from Central California. The salesman had told me it would be a week, but when I later phoned to inquire about delivery times I was later told that “Trees from Lodi always take a full month to deliver.”

So, a month passed, and I got the phone call to come down to Treeland and pick up my maple. When I arrived at the front desk the boss’s wife processed my paperwork. I made a hopeful inquiry as to whether the tree would be small enough to fit into my car, because I didn’t have a pickup any more. She made a joke about how I was going to transport the tree in a Smart Car, and I missed the joke entirely. Instead of realizing that she meant one of those new, tiny, high mileage cars I thought she meant that my car was smart, because of it’s high safety rating. So I said, “Yes, my car does have front and side air bags.”

She looked at me quizzically and said, “What good are air bags going to do with a tree in the car?”

I replied, “Perhaps they will protect the foliage in case of a head on collision?” And she laughed so hard at me that she had to sit down. Then she called Rudolpho on the radio and told him to bring the tree to my car in the parking lot. I guess she talked to Rudolpho some more after I left, because when he showed up with the tree on a dolly he said, “Oh, thank God this car has the full front and side air bags to protect the delicate foliage.”

Some of the leaves fell off inside my car, but the tree seems OK, and I planted it last week.

Or perhaps ‘Pratfall Puppy’ ?

Whilst taking the ‘Fluffy Little White Dust Mop Dog’ for walks he exhibits unusual behavior.  At least one hopes that it’s unusual.  It would be sort of depressing if all dogs were this loopy.

Upon seeing rival, and smaller, dogs across the street it seems to be necessary to assume a courageous pose, then bound forward at speed.  This sort of kangaroo performance is designed, one supposes, to intimidate, or at least impress, the Chihuahuas watching from across the road.

Apparently it is also necessary to look sideways, at the Chihuahuas, in order to gauge their level of intimidation… Rather than looking straight ahead, in the direction of travel.

I’m afraid that I’ve begun talking to the dog recently.  So as I jogged alongside in my efforts to keep up I actually said, “Look out for that tree.”  He wasn’t paying attention to my warning, and looking back it doesn’t make sense for me to give directions rather than yanking on the leash  to prevent the inevitable collision.  He actually bounced back off the tree, sat down, stared at the offending plant, and shook his head like a character from a Tex Avery cartoon.

Days later I recounted the story to a friend.  She tsk-tsked me and mentioned that back in July when she’d been kind enough to take the fluffy bonehead for walks he’d repeated the performance, and bumped into trees at least twice.

Her final comment was, “Yup.  He’s pretty cute, but awfully dumb.  Even for one of those dust mop dogs.”

Act I

A programmer enters his local Wells Fargo branch. He has held an account here for almost 10 years. He thought that he knew all the employees, and he thought that the employees knew each other.

Bank Clerk #1:
Hello. Welcome to Wells Fargo. Can I help you.

Programmer:
Yes, I have some questions about my account. I’ve been dealing with one of the managers here, so he already knows all the ins and outs of my recurring problems with the account, but I don’t see him here. Do you know where your ‘Assistant, Assistant Manager is?’

Bank Clerk #1:
‘Assistant, Assistant Manager?’ We don’t have one of those. I don’t know what that means.

Programmer:
I’m sorry. I don’t know the exact title. Does your bank have a Manager?

Bank Clerk #1:
Yes…

Programmer:
Does your bank have an Assistant Manager?

Bank Clerk #1:
Yes…

Programmer:
And the Assistant Manager is the number two officer here? What’s the title of the number three officer at this branch?

Bank Clerk #1:
That’s the Associate Assistant Manager.

Programmer:
Good. What’s the name of the Associate Assistant Manager?

Bank Clerk #1:
It’s Raphael. Did you want to speak with Raphael?

Programmer:
No, wait, Raphael? I thought that the Associate Assistant Manager’s name was… Well, I can never pronounce it, but it’s sort of like Marian.

Bank Clerk #1:
Yes sir. I’ll be back with Raphael in just a minute.

Programmer:
No, wait…

Associate Assistant Manager:
Hello, my name is Raphael. We’ve never met before.

Programmer:
Yes, I know. We haven’t seen each other before. I guess you’re the new Associate Assistant Manager?

Associate Assistant Manager:
No sir. I’ve been the Associate Assistant Manager here for at least two months.

Programmer:
But before you? I used to deal with your predecessor, and it’s rather embarrassing, but I could never pronounce his name. It was sort of like Marian, but I know that wasn’t how it was pronounced.

Associate Assistant Manager:
Marian? I’ve never heard of that name. Not in all the time I’ve been working at this branch.

Programmer:
You mean you’ve never, ever heard that name before?

Associate Assistant Manager:
That’s right.

Programmer:
Not in either of the two months that you’ve actually been at this location?

Associate Assistant Manager:
Ahem… Tiffany, have you ever heard of a manager here named Marian?

Bank Clerk #1:
No sir. I haven’t met anyone at this branch whose name even starts with an M.

Programmer:
Tiffany, I’ve never seen you here before. How long have you worked at this branch?

Bank Clerk #1:
Umm, six weeks.

Programmer:
May I speak with the manager please.

Associate Assistant Manager:
I’m sorry, but it’s the Assistant Manager’s day off.

Programmer:
Then I’ll have to speak to the manager.

Manager:
Hello sir, I understand that you are not happy with your account?

Programmer:
No, the account is probably fine. I just want to speak with the Associate Assistant Manager who always handles my account, and not only is he not here, but no one appears to have ever heard of him. His name stars with an M, and I can’t pronounce it properly.

Manager:
Oh, you mean Mah-Rioun? Oh he doesn’t work here any more. After several years as the Associate Assistant Manager he was promoted and transferred to another branch. It’s one of those small, inside the super market branches, but now he’s an actual branch manager.

Programmer:
Thank you. So his name did start with an M, and he did used to work here, despite the fact that these other employees denied his existence.

Manager:
What other employees?

Programmer:
Well, everyone else seems to have disappeared. You don’t suppose that you could give me directions to this new branch so that I could talk with Mah-Rioun?

Act II
A Programmer enters a local Vons supermarket. He wanders around the front of the store, looking for the small ‘inside the market’ Wells Fargo branch that he has been told is there. He approaches a checker at one of the registers.

Programmer:
Excuse me. I understand there is a Wells Fargo branch here, inside the market.

Checker:
Yes.

Programmer:
Umm, thank you. Where is this bank? I can’t find it.
(gestures helplessly at the front of the store)

Checker:
It’s not here. It’s over there.

Programmer:
Next to the Produce Section?

Checker:
No, it’s in the Produce Section.

Programmer:
They put the bank in the middle of the Produce Section?

Checker:
Well, where else would they put it?

Programmer:
Umm, they could have put it in the middle of the meat department.

Checker:
What? The middle of the meat department? That’s crazy.

Programmer:
Yes, of course. What must I have been thinking. The Produce Department makes far more sense for a bank location. I don’t actually see it. Where is it exactly.

Checker:
Over by the wall. Behind the big banana display.

Programmer:
Yes, makes far more sense behind the cardboard banana than next to the inflatable pork chop sign.

CURTAIN

The birds are singing, the flowers are blooming, the sun is (barely) over the horizon.  A programmer is awakened by the incessant ringing of his front door bell.  He stumbles to the front door, opens it, and is confronted by two friendly tradesmen in matching T-shirts.

 Programmer:
Yes?

Tradesman #1:
We’re here.

Programmer:
<pause>
Good for you.
<long pause>

Tradesman #1:
We brought your floor.

Programmer:
All my rooms already have floors.

Tradesman #1:
No, your new floor.  We brought your new floor.

Programmer:
Somebody gave me a new floor?

Tradesman #1:
No, you bought a new floor.

Programmer:
No, I did not.
<pause>
I did not buy a new floor.

There is a very long pause, during which a fluffy white dog appears at the programmers feet and growls at the tradesmen.   Tradesman #1 leans back, looks at a portion of the house front where there is no street number and says.

Tradesman #1
Oh, this is the wrong address.

Programmer:
Then we agree on at least one  thing.

He closes the front door and starts to make the dog breakfast.

When I was a boy my father never said “car.”  He always said “automobile.”  My father was older than most of my friend’s fathers, and he came from another country.  He never learned to say “car.”  At a certain point our family stopped buying sedans, and he learned the new term “station wagon.”  He never stopped using the automotive terminology he’d learned as a boy.  He changed it a little, but never completely abandoned it.  So by the late 1960’s he’d say things like;

“Don’t set your soft drink can on the bonnet… ah, hood.”

“We can’t park too close behind that other automobile, or they won’t be able to open the boot… ah, trunk.”

He did fully accept the term “fender” in place of “wing,” but he never gave up “wind screen” instead of “wind shield.”

Many years later I use all American car terms.  I even say “car.”  Well, sometimes I say “automobile,” but that’s only when I’m talking about old or antique cars.  I don’t say “wind screen… ah, wind shield.”  However, I do say wind screen more than half the time.  The rest of the time I pause a little before saying wind shield.  Interestingly enough, I always refer to “wind shield wipers” even if I’m talking about the “wind screen.”

The one term I seem to have completely rejected is “glove compartment.”  Father always said “glove box” and so do I.  Last night, on one of my many new TV channelettes, there was a car commercial.  A pair of little girls were searching through the inside of… Maybe it was some sort of minivan?  Looking for holiday treats.  I don’t remember which holiday, but they were finding treats inside the numerous, handy, practical, convenient storage compartments that clearly added to the sales value of the vehicle.  At one point they found something; a movie, stocks, bonds, letters of transit that cannot be rescinded, inside the “glove box.”  At least that’s what the narrator called it.

Does this mean that American Automotive English is changing?  Or that the commercial was designed to target English financial printers born in 1908?