Cracked
Gloria was bustling around in the kitchen last week. She had on a pair of shorts that were, um, slipping substantially."Whoa, those shorts are way below the Mason-Dixon line," I said.
"Yeah, they're pretty loose," she said.
"Are any of those plates you're unloading cracked?"
"What?"
"You certainly have some crack skills in the kitchen," I said.
"What are you--oh, good grief," she said, and pulled up her shorts. "You'd think after ten years I'd get more respect."
"Respect?" I asked. "Remember, we're talking about crack, and I'm a guy. We can't ignore that--it's how we're wired."
"Really," she said.
"If Mother Teresa's crack was showing, we would be genetically forced to mention her crack worship skills."
"She's dead," Gloria said.
"Exactly. If she came back from the dead and her crack was showing, we'd have to mention it first. And that's nothing personal--it's just the law."
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