Tuesday, August 3, 2010
So . . . I'm out in the waiting room, paging through my new Ikea catalog and I get a text message from Pup.
Pup: They checked the wrong eye. They gave me a patch for the brown eye.
Pup: I'm scared. Come rescue me.
Me: You are bad!!
Me: Tell Dr. H to PLUG your brown eye. You don't need it. :)
Pup: Biggus Dickus is waiting for you.
Me: Oh? Have I met him?
Me: You behave! Dr. H is a nice man.
Pup: I have to poop.
Me: The brown eye has spoken.
Yes, between the two of us, our real-age is about 24. That would be 12 times 2.
I can't lie, the man makes me laugh. He's as inappropriate as a garter-belt on a baseball pitcher (thank you Bull Durham).
The world is made for people who aren't cursed with self-awareness.