Then the guy who I like a lot who's getting laid off noted he was going home to eat a can of soup (versus the paella I was making, which was great, thanks, and is going really well with the big bottle of Spanish wine we're polishing off right now), and when I explained why I probably couldn't set him up with any of my single friends, I got accused of living an episode of Jerry Springer (which might be true). Richard (not being laid off) wants to watch me pop someone in the nose, while Danielle (also not being laid off) explained to me why I don't really want to say I've ever worn "khaki pants," which apparently implies some sort of disorder of the lower digestive system when translated from American pronunciation into English slang.
Ah, English pub culture - I should probably enjoy it more frequently. Or maybe it should enjoy me more. God only knows there was a big hole in the evening that could have nicely been filled with a rendition of "Fifty Nifty United States."