Harry and I decide to hop into our newly procured, pristine, snow-white, gorgeous, drool-inspiring Corvette and go to a romantic dinner in Charleston.
About half-way there a HUGE truck passes us. It's covered in mud from the bottom of its Tonka tires to the top of its dented roof.
ZOOM! It roars past us and we laugh as the little Corvette shakes and then SMACK!
The truck flung mud on us.
Harry looks stunned.
I'm staring, mouth agape, at the large mudbogs that were launched from the behemoth's tires and are now lodged on our pristine white hood.
Harry looks at me: "Mother F***er."
I look at him: "MUDDER F***ER!"
And then I laugh until I drool.
Good times, Good times.
We're sitting at dinner and I'm devouring a Beefsteak Tomato salad by candlelight and discussing the upcoming Michael Buble concert:
"There will be no: huffing, sighning, puffing, crying, whining, snoring, snorting, laughing, eye-rolling or anything else of the sort while he is on stage - got it?!" I point my fork at him for emphasis and then go back to attacking a large tomato. I'm hacking away when he responds: "Well, can I play with myself, then?" I look up at him, eyes wide and say "Whathuh?"
His blue eyes round to big O's and he raises his eyebrows at me. "I said, 'Can I play with my cell phone?"
"Oh." I answer sheepishly. "That's really not what I thought you said!"
Me thinks I better adjust the volume on my car stereo before I end up completely rendering myself deaf at 27!
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