fatdavid8

This evening, while we were on our way from work, my wife, M.F., and I were discussing what we wanted to do for the evening (i.e., do some recreational shopping and then eat some beer and pizza while our alma mater played in the Sweet 16), when I asked her how her doctor's appointment earlier in the day had gone (she's had some stomach trouble ever since we returned from Mexico).

"Oh, that's right," MausFrau said. "Doctor R. said I should take a sample to St. Uvula of the Bleeding Orifices for testing."

"A sample?"

"Yeah. She said I could put it in an old butter tub or some old Tupperware. Something with a sealing lid," MausFrau explained, adding, "Obviously, something with a sealing lid that I wasn't planning on using again. Maybe we should head home first just in case I have to go."

So we stopped by the house, but it turned out that she wasn't ready to make a deposit at St. Uvula's. We headed out for the evening, ran our errands, watched our team, ate pizza, and drank more than our fair share of beer.

While I was driving home, she remarked, "I hope I don't have to go tonight. I'd hate to have to bring a sample to St. Uvula's, what with my being tipsy and all."

"Of course," she added exasperatedly, "it figures: after a week-and-a-half of diarrhea, I'd be constipated the minute the Doctor asked for a sample for testing."

"I'm sure it's nothing to worry about," I responded reassuringly.

"Yeah, I suppose so," she answered, still brooding a bit.

"It's probably just performance anxiety," I added. "I mean, you want your poo to test well ... get into a good college ... succeed in life."

MausFrau nodded in agreement and said, "Yeah, I suppose."

I drove for a couple of blocks, and then she said, "What?!?"

Hilarity ensued.