Bread, Sugar, & Fried Foods
Not only does my father come up with the occasional amusingly snide remark, my girls are also pretty snarky themselves. They always come up with an unintentionally witty quip that makes me laugh.
I’m trying to cut down on bread, sugar, and fried foods per my doctor’s orders, but it’s hard. My wife, who I love dearly, always takes the doctor’s side, so she’s adjusted her shopping habits so that everything in the kitchen is low-fat except for me.
“Why doesn’t healthy food keep you full?” I complained to her, chewing on a celery stick for a snack.
“You know what keeps ME full?” my granddaughter said. “Candy!”
As if I don’t have enough pennies weighing down the pockets of my jeans, my youngest daughter will also throw in her 2 cents of a more mature nature.
“Why doesn’t healthy food keep you full?” I complained to her, chewing on a celery stick for a snack.
“You know what keeps ME full?” my granddaughter said. “Candy!”
As if I don’t have enough pennies weighing down the pockets of my jeans, my youngest daughter will also throw in her 2 cents of a more mature nature.
Before our trip to Mexico, I asked my doctor to prescribe something to nix any potential tummy ailments since you always hear you shouldn't drink the water in Mexico. I didn’t want to spend my entire vacation seeing a man about a horse, if you get my drift. For the record, I didn't have any issues.
I came home with a bottle of something he said would help, and as I was sitting at the kitchen table reading the label, my youngest daughter asked me what it was.
I told her, “It’s for my stomach. It contains simple sugars and salt.”
“Then add some tequila and pour me a margarita,” she quipped.
Sure, I will, sweetie. And after that, I’ll pour you ANOTHER one. Two wrongs don’t make a right, but two margaritas do.
“Then add some tequila and pour me a margarita,” she quipped.
Sure, I will, sweetie. And after that, I’ll pour you ANOTHER one. Two wrongs don’t make a right, but two margaritas do.
For the trip, I had to fill out some paperwork for my wife and I, and it required superficial descriptions of us. Height. Weight. Eye color. Under hair color I put down "dark brown" for my wife.
"Her hair's not dark brown," my granddaughter, who was being nosey over my shoulder, informed me, "it's dark mocha."
"Her hair's not dark brown," my granddaughter, who was being nosey over my shoulder, informed me, "it's dark mocha."
"How do you know it's dark mocha?" I asked her. That's pretty specific. She knows her colors, but no one knows every color.
"Grandpa," my granddaughter said, indulging her new habit of rolling her eyes in exasperation, "it says so on the box!”
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