Sometimes it just doesn't pay to be a smartass...
I do the ironing around here. I don't mind the task, and I'm good at it. What I'm not good at is throwing away empty cans of spray starch. Call it a random bit of neuroticism. I just don't like to toss aerosol cans in the trash or recycling bin or trash. I see them as small cans that could blow up.
My wife picked up an armload of empty spray starch cans from the basket next to the ironing board. She gave me The Look #643--a variation on look #5--that says "My husband is a lovable moron."
I chose to ignore, cheerfully, the look. In an attempt to make half an excuse, I said, "They're all empty."
She chose to push the button on one.
PSSSSSSHHHHT! came the sound.
Speckles on my glasses. Lots of speckles.
The world went gray, and I couldn't move my eyebrows for half an hour. Speckles. The can? Not so empty.
The other day I picked up one of our cats. I get along great with the little nutless wonder, I really do. When I pick him up, he puts one paw on either of my shoulders and usually starts to purr while he licks my cheek.
This time, no purr. He pulled his little head back and looked confused for a second.
Then PSSSSSSHHHHT --sneeze. Cat sneeze.
You know? Cats refuse to cover their mouths when they sneeze.
They cover their owners.
Speckles on my glasses. Lots of speckles.
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