It's Christmas night. Hubs and I are sitting in an Indian
restaurant waiting for our takeout order, and discussing plans for the
childless evening ahead of us.
Me: So we'll go home, eat, watch Christmas Vacation, get drunk, and then. . . you know.
Hubs: Sounds good.
Me: So don't eat too much. I don't want you feeling all stuffed and gross. You won't want to move.
Hubs: There's only one part of me that actually has to move, and it's pretty much automatic.
Me: Oh my god.
Hubs: But I can also move it at will. Want me to do it now? [Holds his breath, screws up his face, and clenches his fists]
Hubs: Sounds good.
Me: So don't eat too much. I don't want you feeling all stuffed and gross. You won't want to move.
Hubs: There's only one part of me that actually has to move, and it's pretty much automatic.
Me: Oh my god.
Hubs: But I can also move it at will. Want me to do it now? [Holds his breath, screws up his face, and clenches his fists]
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