"Sure, baby, what do you need?" I said, trying not to roll my eyes as his requests usually leave me standing in a long line with sweaty men, all of us clutching an over-priced gadget to our chests.
"Will you post this on your blog for me?"
And here it is - the story - as told to me by my loving husband:
Andrew and Harry were two non-assuming males. Both loved expensive steaks, overpriced mashed potatoes and oodles of hair gel. Their lives were the picture of perfection according to GQ magazine. Both had women who loved them, enough must-have gizmos that even Bill Gates himself would want to come over and play and were also the owners of two very respectable and number-laden occupations tucked neatly under their perfectly coordinated and distressed belts.
And then they pulled up to a stoplight in a downtown D.C. neighborhood.
The Prius in front of them rolled to a stop and the doors flung open. Harry and Andrew, two men who have damn near seen it all, watched as two Asian students laughed and scurried around the car and then rushed back inside the tiny imported car with a speed usually left for foreign game shows and Olympic trials.
"Was that," Andrew's eyes grew wide in amazement, "An actual Chinese firedrill?"
"Yes," said Harry as the light changed and he eased the gas pedal down on his handy Audi. "Yes, I believe it was a true Chinese firedrill!"
And the two went on to live happily ever after with the gals of their dreams who, of course, were tortured with this same damn story ad nauseam.