Wednesday, May 14, 2008

Wherein this blog takes a turn for the worst

"This is what I'm going to look like when I'm eighty," the DNB says, marching proudly into the living room.

And at that moment, I realize why I pay the bills and clean the house. Because there my husband stands, a towel artfully spilling from one of the legs of his shorts.

"See it?" he asks with glee. "See it?? It looks like GIANT BALLS!"

I'm glad our life insurance policies have been finalized because then the DNB nearly dies laughing. Cause of Death: Cracked Himself Up with Joke About Testicles.

He goes on to explain how every time he's sitting on the toilet, he looks up and sees this particular towel, which is the Buds' towel, and it reminds him of balls.

He spends the next ten minutes experimenting with his GIANT BALLS, including sitting (between the legs or resting gently on his lap?), standing, walking, and bending over.

When he finally dances his way upstairs, GIANT BALLS dangling, I start typing furiously because there is no way I'm letting this one slip past.

He hears my fingers clicking, and comes rushing back downstairs.

"What are you typing?" he asks accusingly.

I look up and shrug.

"Oh my god, can't a man fake GIANT BALLS with a towel in his OWN HOUSE?" he demands.

He huffs his way to the piano and begins playing a Rachmaninoff Concerto.

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