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Architects have this whole language of their own. You ask them a simple question, and suddenly you're in the middle of an extraterrestrial communication session. "Oh, the fenestration of this building is quite exquisite." Fenestration? Are we talking about windows or summoning ancient spirits? And don't get me started on architraves, cornices, and lintels. It's like they're playing Scrabble with words that no one outside their circle understands. I'm convinced they make up terms just to mess with us. "Oh yes, the flibberflabber of the atrium really enhances the spatial dynamics." What on earth is a flibberflabber?
I tried using architectural terms in everyday conversation. My friend spilled coffee on my carpet, and I said, "Ah, worry not, my friend. The spillage has created a captivating juxtaposition against the textile backdrop." He looked at me like I was an alien. Architects, turning us all into linguistic aliens, one obscure term at a time.
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Ever notice how architects hate blank spaces? I mean, they look at a wall and think, "This is too plain. Let's put a random window here, maybe a triangular one just to mess with people's minds." It's like they're allergic to simplicity. I once asked an architect why they never leave a wall just, you know, blank. They looked at me like I suggested we start building igloos in the Sahara. "Blank spaces are a design sin. We must fill them with artistic expression." Translation: "We can't leave anything alone. Everything must be a canvas for our creative genius."
And have you seen those buildings with the random holes in them? "Oh, those are for ventilation and natural light," they say. I'm pretty sure it's just a way for architects to mess with pigeons. "Here, have a fancy hole to fly through, pigeon. Enjoy the avant-garde experience.
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You ever notice how architects are like the wizards of the real world? They have these magic wands, but instead of casting spells, they just roll out these long scrolls of paper – blueprints. I mean, who even uses paper anymore? It's like, "Hey, welcome to the 21st century, architect. We have iPads now!" And let's talk about these blueprints. They're like treasure maps for buildings. You look at them, and it's a bunch of lines, squiggles, and symbols. It's like deciphering an ancient code. I asked my architect friend, "What's this squiggle right here?" He goes, "Oh, that's the secret passage to the snack room." Architects and their snack secrets.
Seems like architects enjoy making things more complicated than they need to be. I'm convinced they're in a secret competition to see who can draw the most confusing staircase. You walk into a building they designed, and it's like you need a PhD in navigation just to find the bathroom. "Excuse me, sir, I just wanted to pee, not solve a maze.
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Architects and budgeting – two things that don't belong in the same sentence. You hire an architect, give them a budget, and suddenly it's a game of "How Much Can I Stretch This?" It's like going to a restaurant, ordering a salad, and the chef decides to add truffles and caviar because, hey, it's a budget salad. I asked my architect friend about the budget for my house, and he said, "We're going for a minimalist approach." I thought, "Great, finally someone who gets it." Then he handed me the bill, and I realized the minimalism was in the budget, not the design. Architects have this talent for making your wallet go on a diet while their designs feast on luxury.
And don't even get me started on change orders. You want to add a closet? That's a change order. You want a roof? Change order. Suddenly, everything is a change order, and your budget is just a distant memory. It's like playing Monopoly, but instead of hotels, you're buying imaginary architectural features.
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