I’m slicing wife’s fresh baked bread with a long serrated knife.
Wife: Oops, hope I didn’t bump you.
Me (being funny): Hmm, there’s a sausage in the bread.
Wife: Is that “bone-in” sausage?
Topped. Always topped.
ETA: Actually the idea of “bone-in” sausage makes me think. 
This is ominous.
If only this passed (if nothing else, the deadline for filing has passed, so it won’t happen this term):
She’s my representative! Good on her!
Same.
I always knew the road to hell was well-used by joggers.
One reason exercise is bad for you. 
Yeah, that’s too dangerous. You’d end up in the metaphorical Hell in your attempt to run to the literal Hell.
I got a chill from the whooshing of the point flying past the the dudes replying to that tweet.
Every time I see the oxymoron “unborn child” I want to hit someone.
That’s gotta be Hell, Michigan, right?
You know it!
I can honestly say that I’ve been to Hell. Several times.
I’ve been to Devon.
Me (laughing at Cat Of The Day calendar): The caption calls it “she” when it’s clearly a he!
Wife: I didn’t notice.
Me: But look. The cat is jumping in the air with it’s belly showing. You can see it’s a male. His ankle is right in front of his privates. If you just follow his foot down—
Wife: If you just follow his foot down.
Cats have weird looking penes. Horrifying spiny things, but like an inch long and as thick as pencil lead.
I’ve heard about the spines. Poor queens.
Is there a British Bugs Bunny?
