Really? That Guy??

The other night, Clay asked me how it felt to be the only intellegent one around here. Right this minute, those words are on my mind.

Right now, it's just me and the HoMeSkOoLeRz [tm] and their dad. They're all yelling and throwing some kind of a ball around in here, amongst the computers and everything. Gawd, the yelling... If I hear the word "Monkey" mis-pronounced as "muuuh-kee" one more time, I might have to shit in my hand and throw it at somebody. There are not any toddlers here, and I sure think that by the time you're sneakin' up on your tenth birthday, you could say "Monkey" without leaving the damn "n" outta there... But that's a whole different rant...

So, while I'm playin' defense and tryin' to make sure their ball doesn't hit my MacBook, HoMeSkOoL dAd answers a phone. I could only hear part of what was said, but somebody was lookin' for a convertible; we already sold the last one we re-built, which is what he told 'em -- then he gave 'em a number for one of his buddies downtown.

After he hung up the phone, I asked him what the call was...

HoMeSkOoL dAd: "They were lookin' for a convertible to haul the Homecoming Queen in the parade this weekend."

Me: "Well, hell, I could've got the little white Mercury out."

HoMeSkOoL dAd: "Uuuuhh, I don't know that guy's number though."

What? What did I just say? What the hell did he think I just said? Who's this guy we don't have a number for and what kind of say does he have about me unlockin' the garage and gettin' the Merc out?? We don't need anybody's number; it's in the garage right next to my SHO, and the keys to the garage are in my freakin' purse. Seriously, "Uuuuhh, I don't know that guy's number though."

I worry that my brother has fried his brains.