As we settle into the on-ramp to middle age, my husband and I find ourselves utterly captivated by the lamest of intellectual parries and thrusts. One of our favorites is the synonym game. “Eat,” one of us will say. “Devour,” the other will say. “Chew,” comes the reply, followed by “masticate,” “digest,” and so on and so forth.
Last night, inspired by a piscine pun a friend of ours wrote as a Facebook status update, Jeff asked me to name species of fish.
“Uh… trout?” I said. “Pike. Flounder. Why?”
He showed me the picture on our friend Marc’s Facebook wall, a folk-art plate with a fish skeleton painted on it, accompanied by the words “Tuna Half Men. Sole Train.”
Ah. I was beginning to understand.
“I’ve already got ‘Carp 54, Where Are You?'” Jeff said. I need another one.
I gave it a long, hard think. Before long I had one. Perfect.
“Who’s the Bass?” I said.
And we were off.
... but enough about me 