ME: You gave me your cold.
HIM: Is your chest congested?
ME: Like the 405 & 101 interchange at rush hour
HIM: Are you dizzy?
HIM: No I mean dizzier than usual.
ME: I’m not dizzy, but yes, I’m VERY dizzy.
HIM: Yep that’s my cold. And you say I never give you anything.
ME: I know. I feel like I’m sitting behind J Edgar Hoover’s Tombstone hatching gnats.
HIM: Okay translate into earth terms.
ME: What do you mean translate? Obviously I mean horrible. Imagine how tacky J Edgar Hoover’s tombstone would be, and how difficult it would be to sit on a nest of gnat eggs while looking at something like that for hours.
HIM: Are you having you having a stroke on the installment plan?
HIM: Honey, are you in the mood to do me a favor?
ME: Of course not.
HIM: Help me write this.
ME: (thinking… and opportunity knocks… thank God he hates writing.)
HIM: Come on I HATE to write.
HIM: Please… help me.
ME: Fix my Montel Williams blender?
HIM: I KNEW you’d figure out a way to make me fix that lame thing. (Looks at the blender) Oh just needs a washer. (Goes to his secret hiding place for his fix-it thingies)
(5 minutes later)
HIM: Okay I’m done.
ME: Me too… read it, see if you like it.
HIM: It’s great, my father was right about you. You’re an amazing writer. I wish I could write like you.
ME: That wouldn’t be good.
HIM: Why not?
ME: Then who would fix the blender?