Bill finishes trying on a new pair of jeans I bought for him and hands them back to me with his approval. He stands in front of the mirror, glorious in his pantlessness, and fashions his shirt into a makeshift bodysuit.

J: “That’s attractive! I think you should wear a catsuit version of that to work!”

B: “Like a unitard!”

J: “Yeah, emphasis on tard…”

J: “Are you even chewing your biscuit? Because you keep making this… face when you swallow. My god, you’re a dog. Get it all down! Quick!”

Jill made biscuits last night. And true, she may have chewed and tasted hers, but hey…

…biscuits.

J: “I’m not sure what to call this post.”
B: “Why don’t you just call it, ‘Heeeere’s Nate?’”
J: “Did Nicholson’s character kill his wife and kid in the movie?”
B: “No. But he did kill Scatman Crothers with an ax.”
J: “Good to know.”

“You know what the weirdest part about shitting in your own hand would be??”

*Blink*

“How heavy it would feel.”

“Uhhhno. I don’t think that would be the weirdest part about shitting in your own hand.”

“Guess they figure there’s not a big chance of his nipple popping out.”

~referring to the generous screentime afforded Tom Petty during this year’s halftime show

“I don’t respond to anyone’s pointer whose knuckle still has a dimple in it.”

 ~ Me, to Nate, as he demandingly pointed to something from his dinner chair.