Really? That Guy??
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.