I just finished copying myriad episodes of So You Think You Can Dance to DVD to send her daughter who is 24 and apparently can’t afford cable TV.
It just began again. I thought this thing was over for a few months, and it started again, while she screamed at her dogs. Somebody is going to call her on the cell and hear, “GET OFF ME!” and think it is I.
My next wife, who shall be a Methodist as Mother insisted, shall be interested in tropical fish and Jazz.
Blues if I’m lucky.
And her hair? Her hair shall be the color that pleaseth G-d.
Extra points for recognizing Shakespearean references.