I was roasting some beef bones for stock this afternoon when Ray called me up on my cell phone and started rambling. It went something like this.
RAY: The Cure!
RAY: The Cure, that's who!
RAY: If The Cure is traveling at 76 miles per hour, and the main Cure guy leans out the window, and the wind pulls a teardrop off of his cheek, how long until it hits the ground, assuming that a cubic tear weighs one gram?
ME: Less than a minute.
RAY: YOU HAVE SOLVED THE PUZZLE.
ME: Great, what do I win.
RAY: YOU DO NOT WIN A THING AT ALL.
ME: Not even a little can of Dr. Pepper?
RAY: Oh, alright. You win a little can of Dr. Pepper.
RAY: Heh. Yeah, comin' your way. Hold on, alright? [hangs up]
About twenty minutes later he was at the front door with a fifth of Glenfiddich and the Braveheart DVD. Our home theatre is pretty humble, but that didn't slow his enthusiasm. True to form, he sat forward and pushed my shoulder repeatedly during the Robert the Bruce scenes, and had to leave the room during the part where William Wallace is drawn and quartered.