I hate puns.
People around me know this, and thus attempt to torture me all the more. My father and H in particular. My father-in-law stayed with us this past weekend, and so last night H and I took the opportunity to go see the new Harry Potter movie after we'd put D to bed. This is the one where Harry and the gang start their secret Defense Against the Dark Arts lessons, which take place in the hard-to-find Room of Requirement. I should mention this was only the second in-theater movie I have seen in, oh, the past year or so, so it was an event.
Unfortunately the occupant was parked firmly on my bladder, so I spent much of the exciting conclusion to the film squirming around in my seat. As we crossed the parking lot after we left the theater, I was speculating that what we needed was a sort of instant-expanding uterus that went from walnut to watermelon sized at, oh, let's say 37 weeks or so. H suggested that maybe the answer was some sort of external uterus where you could park the occupant at inconvenient times. He even suggested a name.
Wait for it...
The Womb of Requirement.
What do you think? Shall I just smack him with a two-by-four?
3 comments:
Absolutely.
(Kidding)
Failing that ply him with water with not a bathroom in sight and see how *he* likes the sensation.
I have a really good wooden spoon that we use to make thick porridge, which you're welcome to use. It's named Mr Nasty. It comes out whenever someone needs a spanking.
*snort*
I mean, the 2x4 sounds like a good idea ;-)
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