My boss set us free early this afternoon so we could get a jump on the long holiday weekend. I rushed home to take Junior to the beach.
Which entailed putting on a bathing suit.
Me: "Gawd. I look horrible."
Chuck: "We live in Connecticut. Comparatively, you look great."
Me: "What's that supposed to mean?"
Chuck: "Er, nothing."
Me: "No really. Do you mean that amidst the mass of pasty, jiggly Connecticut people, I look like an eight instead of a four?"
Chuck [holding my shoulders like we're in a scene from the Young and the Restless]: "I think we both know that if we lived in California we'd be screwed."
And he wonders why I don't take my clothes off—at the beach (gawd you guys are gutter dwellers).
If you're looking for a place to visit this summer, I bet the Connecticut tourism department neglected to mention that if you come here, you'll look like a rock star compared to all us white fatties. Now what could be better than that?
(Chuck wants everyone to know that this conversation was taken out of context. As soon as he starts his own blog he can explain exactly how.)
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