Prevent me from shitting my pants on national television. Thank you, Jon.
Call me back and say, “If I haven’t flipped you off or told you to go to hell in the last month, then consider it done,” right after hanging up the phone to wish your granddaughter a happy birthday, having not yet listened to the messages I left on your voice mail that went something [...]
In the middle of a compellingly dramatic story that I’m telling you over the phone interrupt me by saying, “SHIT! My son peed on the floor and I just stepped in it.” I can’t think of a better excuse to interrupt someone.
After the dog farts next to the baby’s head for the second time in one day reprimand, “Cut it out, dog. Your mother and I are in love enough that we’re the only ones allowed to do that to each other in this house.”
Fart in the face of the physical therapist as she bounces you around on the exercise ball. Well done, grasshopper. Well done.
When I ask if you have heard about what happened to Petra Nemcova answer, “What? Did he get elected?”
Tell me that every time I call you or you call me that you have a Pavlovian response to head to the bathroom. That’s was friends are for.
Give me a gift of jewelry that I will actually wear (no small feat!) thus making me feel AWFUL for all those times I used the word, “Godammit!” in association with your name.
Tell me that you’re going to enroll me in Tickle Therapy wherein I will learn the intricacies of the loving nature of The Tickle, the exchange of love between the Tickler and the Ticklee, the soft beauty of The Love and The Tickle and The Universe. (I am having a hard time keeping a straight [...]
When I give you a strange look because YOU ARE USING THE BABY’S COMB TO BRUSH YOUR BEARD, explain, “What? It’s the perfect size.”