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So, James fancies himself as a foodie. He's the unofficial food critic of our group. We could be at a Michelin-starred restaurant or a street vendor, it doesn't matter—James will critique it like he's judging a culinary competition. We went to this fancy sushi place, and James starts analyzing his food like he's solving a math problem. "The umami is a bit too overpowering, and the texture lacks subtlety." Dude, we're not at a TED Talk on sushi appreciation; we're just trying to enjoy our meal!
I took him to a burger joint once, thinking, "Can't mess up a burger, right?" Wrong. James looks at his burger like it just insulted his ancestors. "The beef-to-bun ratio is suboptimal, and the seasoning lacks nuance." I'm like, "Bro, it's a burger, not a Shakespearean play!
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You guys know the type—the over-enthusiastic high-fiver? That's James. He doesn't just give a high-five; he throws a celebration every time. You'd think he just won the lottery every time his palm connects with yours. I swear, I could be in the middle of a funeral procession, and James would be there like, "Hey, sorry for your loss," followed by a high-five that could wake the dead. It's like he's auditioning for a role in a sports movie, and every interaction is the grand finale.
He doesn't even discriminate. I've seen him high-five people who were clearly trying to wave or shake hands. James just bulldozes through with his palm, leaving confusion and awkwardness in his wake. Maybe he's on a mission to make the world a more jubilant place—one high-five at a time.
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You ever have that one friend who's like a human alarm clock? I've got a buddy named James, and I swear he's got a personal vendetta against my sleep. I call him the Alarm Clock Saboteur. This guy sets more alarms than a bomb defusal expert. The other day, I woke up to 15 missed calls and a text from James saying, "Just making sure you're alive, buddy!" I appreciate the concern, but I felt like I was in the middle of a rescue mission. And who needs 15 alarms? I'm half-expecting James to burst into my room dressed as a firefighter, yelling, "Get out, there's a snooze button emergency!"
I've started calling him the Sandman's nemesis. You know, instead of helping me drift off into dreamland, James is out there like, "Nope, not on my watch! Wake up, soldier!
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James has this conspiracy theory about lost items. You know how you misplace your keys or wallet, and you're convinced it vanished into another dimension? Well, James takes it to a whole new level. He thinks there's a secret society of inanimate objects plotting against him. I'll get a call from him, and he's like, "Dude, I swear my keys are sentient. They're playing hide and seek with me." I'm like, "James, they're keys, not elves from Middle-earth." He's convinced his TV remote has a vendetta, and his socks are staging a rebellion in the laundry.
He's even given them names—like his car keys are "Houdini" and his sunglasses are "The Phantom." I half-expect him to start a support group for people who believe their belongings are secretly working against them. "Hi, I'm James, and my pen is gaslighting me.
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