One of Shannon's best friends is getting married next month, which is cool. She's doing the deed in the Bountiful temple, which is cooler (that's where Shannon and I tied the great granny of all knots). And her fiancée looks like Bon Jovi, which is coolest.
If I looked like Bon Jovi, I'd only speak in Bon Jovi song lyrics.
Coworker (greeting me as I sally into our shared cubicle): Hey, man. What's up?
Me: Not much. Just livin' on a prayer.
Coworker: That's cool. How was your doctor's appointment? Did they look into those chest pains?
Me: Yeah. I got another shot through the heart.
Coworker: Bummer. Want some coffee?
Me: No thanks. Gotta keep the faith.
Coworker: Hey, why are you walking all bow-legged?
Me: Oh, you know. Rode my steel horse into work today.
Coworker: Still wanted dead or alive?
Me: Yeah. It's my life. I ain't gonna live forever.
Coworker: Can I get you anything to nip the soreness?
Me: Got any bad medicine?
Coworker: Nope. Took the last of it last week for my migrane. Sorry.
Me: Dang. Bad medicine is what I need. Man, it's tough to be a devil on the run, a six-gun lover, a candle in the wind.
Coworker: I imagine. Maybe you ought to go lay down on the bed of roses in the break room.
Me: Good idea. Thank you for loving me.
Coworker: No worries, bro. I'll be your eyes when you can't see.
Me. Cool. (Getting up to go to the break room) Well, have a nice day.
Coworker (softly, to himself, watching me walk away): That guy's hair is a total fire hazard.
But, alas, I don't look like Bon Jovi. I do, however, look like the guy from Blues Clues, I've been told. And sometimes people even suggest I look like Keanu Reeves, and just as I start to feel a little swagger swelling in my soul, they specify that I look like Keanu Reeves when he played in Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure, and I rapidly deflate.
Fortunately, my wife doesn't mind that I don't wear leather pants like Bon Jovi. And she likes my jawbone better than his. And she's glad that our son's name isn't Halen Bon Jovi, because that would be awkward and would doom him to have a really high voice, big hair, and severe divisions of loyalty among 80s butt rock bands.
If I looked like Bon Jovi, I'd only speak in Bon Jovi song lyrics.
Coworker (greeting me as I sally into our shared cubicle): Hey, man. What's up?
Me: Not much. Just livin' on a prayer.
Coworker: That's cool. How was your doctor's appointment? Did they look into those chest pains?
Me: Yeah. I got another shot through the heart.
Coworker: Bummer. Want some coffee?
Me: No thanks. Gotta keep the faith.
Coworker: Hey, why are you walking all bow-legged?
Me: Oh, you know. Rode my steel horse into work today.
Coworker: Still wanted dead or alive?
Me: Yeah. It's my life. I ain't gonna live forever.
Coworker: Can I get you anything to nip the soreness?
Me: Got any bad medicine?
Coworker: Nope. Took the last of it last week for my migrane. Sorry.
Me: Dang. Bad medicine is what I need. Man, it's tough to be a devil on the run, a six-gun lover, a candle in the wind.
Coworker: I imagine. Maybe you ought to go lay down on the bed of roses in the break room.
Me: Good idea. Thank you for loving me.
Coworker: No worries, bro. I'll be your eyes when you can't see.
Me. Cool. (Getting up to go to the break room) Well, have a nice day.
Coworker (softly, to himself, watching me walk away): That guy's hair is a total fire hazard.
But, alas, I don't look like Bon Jovi. I do, however, look like the guy from Blues Clues, I've been told. And sometimes people even suggest I look like Keanu Reeves, and just as I start to feel a little swagger swelling in my soul, they specify that I look like Keanu Reeves when he played in Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure, and I rapidly deflate.
Fortunately, my wife doesn't mind that I don't wear leather pants like Bon Jovi. And she likes my jawbone better than his. And she's glad that our son's name isn't Halen Bon Jovi, because that would be awkward and would doom him to have a really high voice, big hair, and severe divisions of loyalty among 80s butt rock bands.