"The Scream" by MauchYesterday I asked the Mister one of those "Does my butt look big in this?" kind of questions.
It's funny what happens to some men when asked these quicksand, gunpowder loaded, no parachute and cobra in the chicken coop kinda queries. You can practically hear the gears working in their tiny little skulls.
The Pollyanna right brain kicks in first. It curtsies, twirls around on tip toes and then expels all sorts of have-at-it suggestions: Goooo ahead Matey! It's you're big chance. She does look fat in that. The color is bad too. You've always hated that outfit. Tell her. She wants to know. Go back a few years and tell her how you hated that thing she wore to MiMi's wedding. And might as well tell her to lose those brown shoes she keeps wearing. They look like ass. Tell her! Tell 'er to lose a few pounds, but that outfit will still look like sheep dip. She ain't what she used to be....... say it say it say it!
Meanwhile the left brain - the linear, safe and watch-your-back-side, don't forget your umbrella part of the brain is holding on to the brain stem for dear life and screaming "Whoaaaaaaaaaa big fella! Do you want to get us both killed? Just say NO! LIE! It's better for your health. Don't say anything. Press those lips together like an apple turnover and pretend you didn't hear her. Maybe she'll take her fat butt and that hideous outfit back into the bedroom and change. Don't say anything! If you're thinking what I think you're thinking then I'm thinking we'll all be dead by morning. REDRUM! REDRUM!
And what happens next is the Mister's eyes kind of flicker. His pupils dilate and flash - as though an alien being has taken over his body - and he says:
Weeelllhmmmtchzzzzflebleblatzsnurrrrf tick tick plink psssst fouffffffffffffffzt."
Good answer.
(Catch ya'll later. Gotta go change this outfit)
It's funny what happens to some men when asked these quicksand, gunpowder loaded, no parachute and cobra in the chicken coop kinda queries. You can practically hear the gears working in their tiny little skulls.
The Pollyanna right brain kicks in first. It curtsies, twirls around on tip toes and then expels all sorts of have-at-it suggestions: Goooo ahead Matey! It's you're big chance. She does look fat in that. The color is bad too. You've always hated that outfit. Tell her. She wants to know. Go back a few years and tell her how you hated that thing she wore to MiMi's wedding. And might as well tell her to lose those brown shoes she keeps wearing. They look like ass. Tell her! Tell 'er to lose a few pounds, but that outfit will still look like sheep dip. She ain't what she used to be....... say it say it say it!
Meanwhile the left brain - the linear, safe and watch-your-back-side, don't forget your umbrella part of the brain is holding on to the brain stem for dear life and screaming "Whoaaaaaaaaaa big fella! Do you want to get us both killed? Just say NO! LIE! It's better for your health. Don't say anything. Press those lips together like an apple turnover and pretend you didn't hear her. Maybe she'll take her fat butt and that hideous outfit back into the bedroom and change. Don't say anything! If you're thinking what I think you're thinking then I'm thinking we'll all be dead by morning. REDRUM! REDRUM!
And what happens next is the Mister's eyes kind of flicker. His pupils dilate and flash - as though an alien being has taken over his body - and he says:
Weeelllhmmmtchzzzzflebleblatzsnurrrrf tick tick plink psssst fouffffffffffffffzt."
Good answer.
(Catch ya'll later. Gotta go change this outfit)
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