My Samuel L. Jackson Story (Once Removed)
This is actually my husband's Samuel L. Jackson story, but since I don't have one of my own I figured I'd steal his. In the spirit of all of the SLJ overload from this weekend.
Once upon a time, Hubs worked with a management consulting firm in the Risk Management arena. That meant that he had to travel twice a month to Bermuda--the capitol of insurance in the Western Hemisphere, and thus the capital of Risk Management professionals as well. Travelling to Bermuda twice a month sounds glamorous until it's you who has to do it. Hubby has several phrases he tells people about this time, the chief one being that a conference room in Bermuda looks the same as a conference room in Nashville. He's probably right.
One early morning as he was trying to make it to his Bermudan conference room for a meeting, he had one foot in the cab. Out of nowhere a large black man comes barrelling through and shoves him aside.
"Excuse me, but this is my cab" is all Hubs could say. He was pretty much in shock. He had to make sure he was at the office on time for this particular meeting. It was one of those facetime-with-the-bigwigs-to-insure-the-future-of-your-job things.
"Sorry" said the Bad M----F-----r. "I have to make a tee time."
Yep. That's right. Sam Jackson very seriously jeopardised my husband's job, and the jobs of three other men. So that he could make it to the golf course on time.
We hate him in our family.
When we went to Snakes On A Plane on Saturday, the last thing Hubs said to me before the movie started was "I hate putting money in that cabstealer's pocket."
The bad weekend grosses for SOAP make me feel kinda, I dunno, aware of karma.