It's in the Can!
The key to comedy, they say, is timing. I hate cliches, but I totally love it when life presents situations that prove them.
Saturday, Lindsey played in a softball tournament. I did not. Being the supportive wife I am, I limped to Memorial Park - the very fields on which we met - to watch her play. The Houston Parks and Recreation Department seems to think that one port-o-can outside the gate of the two softball fields would sufficiently (and efficiently) serve all players and spectators. It was out of toilet paper by noon.
We left the park after Lindsey's team was eliminated from the tournament. As we were leaving the park, we saw one of our friends waiting to use the port-o-can . As we approached, he asked Lindsey, "Are you done?" Before she could answer, a muffled voice from inside the port-o-can quickly replied, "Don't rush me, Queen!" Whatever else he continued to say was lost as the three of us cracked our asses up. Our friend managed to say "I wasn't talking to you! I was talking to the girls!" Silence. Then more laughter. That, alone, made eight hours of sitting on metal bleachers cultivating my Hamburglar sunburn completely worth it.
Saturday, Lindsey played in a softball tournament. I did not. Being the supportive wife I am, I limped to Memorial Park - the very fields on which we met - to watch her play. The Houston Parks and Recreation Department seems to think that one port-o-can outside the gate of the two softball fields would sufficiently (and efficiently) serve all players and spectators. It was out of toilet paper by noon.
We left the park after Lindsey's team was eliminated from the tournament. As we were leaving the park, we saw one of our friends waiting to use the port-o-can . As we approached, he asked Lindsey, "Are you done?" Before she could answer, a muffled voice from inside the port-o-can quickly replied, "Don't rush me, Queen!" Whatever else he continued to say was lost as the three of us cracked our asses up. Our friend managed to say "I wasn't talking to you! I was talking to the girls!" Silence. Then more laughter. That, alone, made eight hours of sitting on metal bleachers cultivating my Hamburglar sunburn completely worth it.