“What about ghosts?” Chooch asked after Henry urged him to stop putting his weener on things.
“If you can find one, fine,” Henry said tiredly, followed by a sigh and exhausted eye rub. Henry knows when to avoid an argument; living with me for all these years has made him a seasoned pro at it. He knows that had he said “Not even on a ghost!” Chooch would have just continued on down the line.
“A hot air balloon?”
“Not if you want to keep it.”
“Sarah Palin’s eyeballs?”
It’s a futile war we’re fighting. Chooch is a boy, for Christ’s sake. Ain’t no way, no how, he’s going to stop using everything at his fingertips as a weener rest. I know I wouldn’t. I’d have mine cloaked in a fur pelt and stuffed inside the hose of a vaccuum cleaner RIGHT NOW.