In general, I don’t wish anyone pain, but in the specific, I sometimes want to grab Phil’s balls and squeeze until they pop out. Oops, there goes another rubber tree plant.
In general, I think it’s good to air it, say what’s on your mind, but in the specific, I want Phil to just, for the love of God, zip it already.
The other day, my sweet little wish was granted. Phil bit his tongue so hard it actually turned black and blue. What followed can only be described as a "Peter Boyle Moment."
"You see, it’s a good thing, Philip. God was literally telling you to just hold your tongue already. Zip it. Shut it. Enough outta you."
For the rest of the day, he still managed to argue and opine, only as he tried to air his many frustrations with me, I was a convulsive jiggling woman, gasping for air, thrashing about in a laughing fit. "I feel very disrespected," sent me into spasms, set to the tune of Peter Boyle as the monster in Young Frankenstein, singing "Puttin’ on The Ritz."
So thank you God, for giving me a sense of humor to deal with this dear man. And now, a clip: