"Look son!" I said, pointing to the on-screen clock on the electrical television device, "It's l33t o'clock!"And lo, for it was 13:37, it was indeed l33t o'clock.
"LOL" said the boy.
And: "ROFL"
"And I", with just a small air of smug on my voice, "Am teh l33t-est."
"But..." said Mrs Duck, "But..."
There was a brief pause, as the wheels went round.
"But... don't you spell it L I T E?"
"LOL" said the boy.
And: "ROFL"
I shook my head in pity.
"You'll never be l33t like me."
"And I don't know why I married you."
PWN3D, and the boy LOLed again.
On not being 1337
Yesterday, whilst popping into the shops for a loaf of bread on the way to work, I fell flat on my face.
One minute I was walking along with a french stick under my arm, the next I was performing a cat-like forward roll in the gutter to prevent myself from being killed TO DEATH.
My french stick: mangled.
One woman stared at me with "Look at him - drunk at THIS HOUR" written all over her face, and there was not one offer of help to be had. I crawled back to my car pretending it didn't hurt in the slightest, waiting for the adreneline rush to wear off and the agony to begin.
"Ouchies", I said. Except it came out "CUUUUUUNT!"
What I have learned from this experience:
* This is what getting old feels like
* Public profanity does not generate sympathy from passers-by, no matter what your predicament
* I am not 1337 in the slightest. I am TEH D0RKUSS
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