So Wifey and I were talking about death last night.
Here is part of that conversation:
ME: "So how do you think you'll die?"
WIFEY: "I'll probably kill myself."
It's a gas, gas, gas!
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I might.
"It's over for us. If this oil comes ashore, it's just over for us," Rowell said angrily, rubbing his forehead. "Nobody wants no oily shrimp."
"Oh, That Wifey!"
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My dog.
3 comments:
Make sure she does it while you still have that dumpster for ease of disposal...assuming, of course, there's no extra charge for a body.
Maybe you should call and ask, just in case.
I'll probably kill myself, too.
Though in my case it'll be by doing something stupid.
"Toast and a nice bubble bath, together at last!"
"I'm sure I can get across that street before that bus."
"What? Kabul? It sounds lovely, count me in!"
Nopie's gonna get his head bit right off to the stump when that cute little puppy suddenly turns into Cujo. 'Course, even if she doubles her size, she'll still be pretty tiny, so I wouldn't worry about the head with the eyes and ears and mouth and stuff too much.
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