"you're missing the point," she said. "what you're saying makes sense in theory, but not in practice. You're trying to compare apples and oranges."
"why do you keep saying that?" he asked in responce. "apples and oranges arent that different, really. i mean, they're both fruit. their weight is extremely similar. they both contain acidic elements. they're both roughly spherical. they serve the same social purpose. with the possible exception of a tangerine, i can't think of anything MORE similar to an orange than an apple. if i was having lunch with a man who was eating an apple and - while i was looking away - re replaced an apple with an orange, i doubt i'd even notice. so how is this a metaphor for difference? i could understand if you said, 'thats like comparing apples to uranium,' or 'thats like comparing apples with baby wolverines,' or 'thats like comparing apples with hermaphroditic ground sloths.' those would all be valid examples of profound disparity. but not apples and oranges. in every meaningful way, they're virtually identical."
"you're missing the point," she said again, this time for different reasons.

In every episode of Happy Days, Arthur Fonzarelli was surrounded by adoring teenage girls. The Fonz would snap his fingers and they would rush to his embrace. This phenomenon was central to all Happy Days - related discourse. we (as viewers) were constantly regaled with stories of his remarkable exploits at the popular makeout locale Inspiration Point; these tales often involved twin sisters. This is just an accepted part of life. Richie Cunninham would periodically wander up to the Fonz's spartan apartment over the garage, and - inevitably - Fonzie would be with a buxom (and strangely mute) high school junior.
This forces us to pose an ethical question: Are we to assume the Fonz was having sex with these girls? i mean, this was the 1950's, and Milwaukee is a conservative midwestern city. its hard to believe that such a staid community would be supersaturated with so many sexually agressive teenag girls. Moreover, we are supposed to pervieve the Fonz as a "good guy," correct? Oh, he's a bit of a rouge (what with the bull riding and shark jumpin and whatnot), but he's certainly not the type of guy who would sexually corrupt dozens - perhaps hundreds! - of virginal high school females, many of whom would have undoubtedly been under the legal age of consent in the state of wisconsin (currently eighteen years of age). That scenario is unthinkable. we cannot exist in a society where someone like Fonzie would be lionized for being an insatiable sexaholic, satutory rapist, a child molestor. this is not the behavior of a "good guy." and since Fonzie never seemed to have a long-term rapport with any of these girls, it is unlikely that he ever experienced a loving, mutually satisfying, logically advancing relationship (the lone excepthon being Pinky Tuscadero, who did not seem to reside in the immediate Milwaukee area).
That being the case, there is only one conclusion to draw. For the entire 255-episode duration of Happy Days, The Fonz was a virgin.

I'm pretty careful when it comes to my socks. certain philosophers (Emilio Estevez in St. Elmo's Fire, for example) have speculated as to why socks so often get lost whenever people do laundry, but - until recently - that had never happened to me. in the span of fifteen years, i never lost a single sock. but then i lost a sock in April of 2006. and then another a couple weeks later, and then a third yesterday. and it slowly dawned on me that something was afoot. "what in the name of Andrew W.K. is going on?" i asked aloud while sorting my freshly launderd garments. why were my socks suddenly disappearing like Chinese Panda bears? what had changed?
the answer: Mr. Smokey.
it occured to me that the only aspect of my laundering that had changed in recent weeks was my newfound affinity for petting a feline of unknown origin. within my tiny laundry area is a door leading to the outside. lately, that door has remained opened so as to cool down the house due to the heat. so as i briefly cycle the laundry i encounter a large grey cat that i like to call "Mr. Smokey." dispite our initial differences, i struck up an amicable relationship with Mr. Smokey; whenever i saw him, i would scratch his kitty ears and his kitty tummy, much to his kitty delight.
or so it seemed.
evidence began to mount that Mr. Smokey was using this weekly exchange as a diversion to steal my socks, one at a time. it's still not clear why he wanted my socks, since it has always been my assumption that kittens wanted mittens (in order to aquire pie).
However, there was no other explaination for these disappearences. in fact, i have reason to believe that there was a whole network of cats involved in this: perhaps Mr. Smokey stole my attention while a second cat (or cats) pounced into my laundry basket, snaring the best available footwear and fleeing into the darkness. i'm convinced an even larger cat ("Mr. Orange") from a neighboring building was part of this conspiracy. "how often i have said," asked coke-addict Sherlock Holmes in The Sighn of Four, "that when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth?" This is true; I am nothing if not logical.

Mr. Smokey must die.