Two years ago this June (June 14th, 7:30pm, in the Alamo Cafe) my husband asked me to marry him. It is a day I will never forget. He’d snuck my family down from Arkansas, and we spent all week hanging out, eating home cooked meals, and acting like tourists. It was a week full of wooing and romance, full of family and excitement.
This picture, by the way, is a picture of my ring.
But that isn’t the only reason I’ll remember that week. In addition to hanging out with family and making wedding plans, we also went to the hospital. For an, “abscessed buttocks.” Yes, somehow or another, my husband managed to get an sore on his butt. The sore got infected, sent his temperature skyrocketing, and him to the hospital.
But . . . but . . . butt
You could say he was a pain in the butt.
But you see, he just couldn’t take this situation sitting down.
So he became the butt of many jokes.
His humor really sticks. I really shouldn’t spread it around.
He sometimes talks about of his butt. Indeed, his degree is a BS.
Actually, he usually doesn’t stoop so low for a laugh. On that day, the jokes just kept rolling off the tongue, so much so that he had the nurses alternatively laughing or shooting him, “you’re weird,” glances.
He believes that potty humor is the lowest form of humor. After all, you’re not going to find one, “you’re butt’s so big,” joke here. But he is a child at heart, so if someone farts–well, he says it all depends on the context. Given the right setting, he just might view it as a competition, in which case he’ll probably win, since he has no sense of smell.
That lack of smell sometimes helps with my cooking. After all, unless he’s in the same room, he can’t tell when I’ve burnt supper, or when I’m cooking period. It makes surprising him (with food) easy. Easier.
But my husband loves puns. And he has a brain that is as big as Europe. I never try to get into a pun-off with him. I always loose.