SHE'S SWEET. riginal.
I'm a tinkerer.
Tin, pertaining to the Greek...as in: "are you banging some'tin in the garage as your tea is on the table and I'm not going to heat it up again because...?"
Kerer, pertaining to the fact that "becausea I couldn't KERER lessa becausea wea hada an argumenta lasta nighta and if your pasta tastes a bit tuffa - uh because it has gone colda - uh all the betta...HUH!"
No,my wife is not Italian, she's Polish. She puts a terse subliminal 'a' inflecting 'uh' with a dab of monotone when she's angry. Your missus doesn't play those sort of mind/speech tonal righteous "guess what i'm sh...ty about" games when she's angry about something you said that really hurt her real/imagined feelings and you're eating cold pasta with "humble pie" (look at your plate) as she accentuates 'banging' your coffee TWICE on the table?-or does she?
If she doesn't bang twice with the coffee so that the second bang promotes 'brown gravy' co-joined pasta, then it sounds like Mrs Brady Bunch's bangon fist is an open palmed "sit thee down oh glorious husband and partake. After your taste buds (undoes the belt on your jeans a notch so the stuffed pheasant can settle in your tum) settle their frivolous partaking of the plump bird methinks I shot pon yon estate, I shall whip the cream cow at moderate temperature and squander it pon chocolate moose, which methinks I did'st pluck from yon moose tree.
Can I burp/break wind for you love of my life?" Sounds like something out of Cumalot. If this IS your life and you do have a choco blocko moose tree and a pheasant chasing cream cow could I have your address please? I'm a bit like Peter Cellars..."I like to watch."
Peter resides in the Cumalot cellar stamping perfect hand shot grapes from the shooting vine yard. They don't shoot grapes? Well...they shoot horses don't they? What's a perfect matured grape got to do with a horse? If I have to explain the difference you are currently drinking hoarse from a 100 year old bottle of wine, or, you've been galloping round the sprawling estate of Cumalot speaking to the servants tending the choc moose trees from a dressage saddled grape?
I still wouldn't whine though. Just don't enter it in the Kenchucky Derby as it might give you the pip and come last. You could chuck up. But then Lady Brady would have a silver 'throw up' bucket. Sounds sickening and you can turn away, but re-gurgitated stuffed pheasant and choc moose is a very good fertilizer to put round the base of your Cumalot 'money trees'.
If however, the money trees don't cum on a lot and seem to be badly rooted, Lady Brady will take out her Ak rifle ok? Shoot down an overhead crow. Might not help regenerate the already rooted dollar. But at least you'd have something to crow about. The good Lady Brady may brood a little. Cross breed a wine grape with a horse, the American dollar, cream cow choco moose, and a pheasant in a bear tree. Probably end up with a whining hoarse money strapped morose cow off its tits! Which brings me back to my original unpheasant problem. Barely relevant? Read what you like into it.
You see, after the bangon coffee spill which drowned the plaster pasta and gravely mugged the mince meat...the missus didn't stop there. She started washing the dishes. Then breaking them. That's okay, but it makes them hard to put away. I finally sensed something amiss?
As we sensitive men do. I put my arms round my wife and I mentioned in passing "is something wrong dear?" I said (look sorrowfully at the floor DON'T look up!) "I love you even though your knickers are in a twist and your 'crossover' bra is that cross that if it gets any more tension it'll take off and leave you breastless...sorry, breathless (kneel down). Just arguing with you makes me want to be a better arguing husband person. If my tongue did'th offend thee then smite it from my very throat and may I die a thousand deaths and if everything IS my fault may God shock my very soul."
You are not going to believe this. I reached into my pocket to pull some 'appeasement' reconsilliation 'suck up' money out of my overalls. The missus was warming a moose in one of those jaffle irons, nearly ready to be choc o blocked ... my elbow flicked the power cord and the moose was swimming for its life in the sink full of broken dishes and water.
I pushed my missus aside and took the brunt of 240 moose volts. I lay on the floor. Shaken but not stirred. "You saved my life darling." She cradled my head. I was in and out of consciousness. The moose was dead. "I know dear but that's what we men do. The moose is dead, long lick the moose." The missus untwisted her knickers n' stuff, took $50 out of mine...went down the pastry shop and shock chocked a fresh young moose.
As we lay in bed that night God spoke to me quietly. "God! you're an actor, the safety switch turned the power off in a millisecond." "I know God but I did it for the moose...it was only a white lie and it made me a batter person." Maybe it wasn't God? I know my missus was grinning and she was licking her lips? The only thing injured in this story was the big M...my $50, one crossover. Look you guys, if you're in the wrong admit it. Unless of course you're rich, you gallop round on a grape...and you live near Sir Lungealot in Cumalot? cheers......