Sunday night. Five p.m. Chez Mullets. Cupboard is bare.
Mrs. Mullet: “Bald man-stallion*? My aunt invited us over for Sunday dinner.”
Mrs. Mullet: “Do you want to go?”
Mrs. Mullet: “Are you listening to me?”
Chuck: “I think I’m going to pass.”
Mrs. Mullet: “You’re married with a kid. There are no passes.”
Chuck: “I don’t want to see your aunt.”
Mrs. Mullet: “Why not?”
Mrs. Mullet: “Because...?”
Chuck: “Because she tries to kiss me. On the lips. Every time.”
Mrs. Mullet: “Bullshit.”
Chuck: “See?!” Whips out our wedding album. Thumbs to page gazillion. Points to this
Mrs. Mullet: “You can take a little tongue for pot roast...”
* So shoot me, I'm trying to make amends for my wandering eye.
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