Last week, we were on our way home from getting ice cream, what a wonderful, wholesome, all-American family outing. At a red light on Rt. 65, I looked out the window and noticed we were idling next to a large pet store.
Chooch and I naturally started hounding Henry to turn into the lot, because we waned to splay our hands all over the fur, but Henry got really shady, and I mean ultra uneasy about our desire to stop at some local riverfront establishment to ogle the living wares. Now maybe a normal person would suggest this was because Henry was worried that we would try to bring home a Richard Gere-certified gerbil or some dumb beta fish; maybe you might assume that Henry was tired of being out and about and just wanted to go home and take his pants off; perhaps you think he saw his SERVICE porn dealer’s car in the lot. Or could be he was just tired of letting his two dependents constantly get their way. I hate when he utilizes his right to say no.
And these are all reasonable theories, I guess.
But I immediately cried, “Oh my god! It’s because you impregnated some broad in there, didn’t you?!”
Chooch joined in from the backseat.
Hypothesis for two, please!
“How far along is she?” I asked with faux-sincerity.
Henry was really agitated by now and when the light turned green, he floored it.
“You know, this place isn’t too far from where you work, so it’s plausible,” I rationalized, inspiring more flimsy arguments from Henry’s imaginary defense team.
Last night, Henry and I were on our way home from the Howard Jones concert at Hartwood Acres, when we drove past a pet store that’s for sale.
“Ooooh! Maybe the place where your pregnant mistress works put it out of business!”
“Yeah, speaking of that. Chooch almost told my mom about that but I stopped him in time, thank god,” Henry sighed.
“Why do you care if he tells her if it’s supposedly FALSE?!” I yelled, excited to put him on the spot again.
“ITS NOT TRUE!” Henry yelled. “I don’t want him telling her that because I didn’t feel like explaining to her why you were even talking about that in the first place,” he said in exasperation as I ate the last of the peanut butter cookie I was supposed to be sharing with him but yeah right.
Hmm. If he wasn’t guilty of knocking up some pet store clerk, then why is he trying to keep the story from his mom?!
How does that saying go? If it looks like a pet store clerk impregnator and walks like a pet store clerk impregnator, then Henry’s got a ho that probably smells like soiled newspaper and fish food?
YEAH. Something like that.
(I wrote this in bed and fell asleep a few times, so I’m sure it’s a great read!)