I hate being sticky. I hate it so much that I will not order ribs; not unless they are boneless, anyway. Tonight we went out to a BBQ place for dinner. Naturally, I did not get the ribs. Frank, however, did.
Now here’s where we carry the weirdness a bit too far. I handed him one of those little wipes and told him he had to clean his hands off because it was bothering me. Looking at his hands, I could feel it – the stickiness on my own hands.
There is just so much a wipe can do so as we were walking, Frank reminded me that I did not want to hold his hand because he would still be sticky. I forgot and accidentally went for his hand and then dropped it. He decided to be funny & made what I guess he thought was a monster sound only he ended up sounding like a pirate.
“Arggg! I’m a pirate.”
“Uh, you can’t be a pirate. You have to either be a cowboy or a Mexican,” I told him.
“Didn’t pirates go down to Mexico for booty?” he replied.
“Pervert.”
“No, not the kind of booty like the rap songs sing about.”
Yeah, that’s a pretty typical conversation for us.
I, for one, am just really glad that there are still some couples around who know the fine art of communication. Of course, the obvious joke right now would be to follow that sentence with….”too bad it’s NOT you and Frank”…but this time I’m not going for the obvious. Nope, not gonna.
Yep, you’re weird.
Frankly, I wanted to know more about the BBQ.
You’re the same weird I am. Or maybe less. I won’t even eat ribs at all, or brisket with sauce unless the brisket is dry and I can dip it into barbecue sauce.