“I can’t believe your boxers are still sitting on my shelf.”

“That’s because you haven’t picked them up, yet.”

“Are you five?”

“No, I’m your master, bitch.”

Yesterday, Master turned to me and said, “Why don’t you get the dishes done and then get in the shower?”

And I snapped, “I’m writing.”

I mean, I was…sort of. I was actually surfing the web for a topic, and had veered off into the weeds a little. Apparently, Miley Cyrus said she feels like a man in an interview, and now people are wondering if she’s questioning her sexuality. So I was searching around trying to figure out what the fuck they were talking about, as if that has any business on any of the sites I currently write for. But I thought maybe I could squeeze a post out of it, ya know?

Yeah, that was dumb. The weed combing and the snapping at Master.

I made a big to-do about getting up and doing the dishes afterward, as if I had any right, and then I stomped off to the shower. And while I’m scrubbing, he pokes his head in and says, “Hey, maybe we should communicate with each other, instead of you going off? What do you think?”

What else could I say, but, “Yes, Master.”

…and they’re on Native American land.

Master says, “My Indian name can be Master Little Dick.”

I reply, “I think a better name for you would be Master Head In Ass.”

He says, “Nah. It just doesn’t really scream me.”

A friend of ours stopped by and the first thing out of his mouth was, “Whoa, M! You’ve lost weight! I can see it in your face!”

I waited for him to say something to me, and when he didn’t, I was disappointed.

When he left, I said to M, “See everyone can tell you’re losing weight, but no one notices I am.”

Today, he said, “Don’t worry. If they bent you over and fucked you from behind, they’d notice you’re losing weight. You’ve got curves you never had before. Damn.”

I’m less disappointed now. =D

<3

So I put my knitting on the arm of the couch, and the yarn ball rolled down the couch to M’s leg and fell on the floor. He yells, “Wait! Wait!” all frantic, but doesn’t even move.

I just stared at Him for a minute before He yelled, “I tried to stop it!”

The following is a test of Your Sense of Humor.  The bloggers in your area, in voluntary cooperation with the First Amendment, have developed this system to weed out the overly sensitive.  This is only a test.  Do not adjust your monitor or take offense.  I repeat: This is only a test.

(IOW: If you’re easily offended, don’t read this post! Master really was just joking.  Racism is a shitty, shitty thing that we choose not to participate in.  But stereotypes are fun to make fun of.  Please believe us when we say, we are making fun of the stereotype, and not Mexicans in general.  We love Mexicans.  Mexicans are our friends.) (From Melen: Maybe we’ll even have tacos for dinner.)

So Master has this thing about “The Line”.  “The Line” is sacred.  You do not cross “The Line”.  He can cross “The Line” if He wants, but no one else is allowed to cross “The Line”.  Crossing “The Line” is punishable by death.  Or at least lots of smacking, punching, pinching and chiding.

“The Line”? Yeah, it’s between our pillows.

Last night, I wasn’t even crossing “The Line”.  He was crossing “The Line”.  And while I drew an imaginary line with the four fingers of my left hand, sawing off His arm at the elbow, to show Him that He, in fact, was the one crossing “The Line” He yelled:

“I’m gonna bring out Border Patrol!”

“Wait.  You’re gonna hire Mexicans to keep me on my side of the bed?”

“I’m gonna hire Mexicans! I’m gonna hire Mexicans to patrol this border.  And I’m gonna give ’em live ammo.  And I’m gonna pay them five bucks an hour.  They’re gonna be rich!”

Yeah… I was pretty much speechless.  Or maybe it was the fact that I was turning purple from laughing so hard and couldn’t actually speak.

I crawled over top of Him to find my journal so I could write it down to share with you lovely folks.  And then He said this:

“The world of darkness is seeming very small right now.” while shielding His eyes from the light I’d just flicked on with His hand.

I cracked up again.

“Well! It’s vaguely hand shaped.  And not even a big hand! A hand about the same size as mine!”

I stopped writing at that point.  He just kept going.  And I couldn’t stop laughing.

Nut job.

This was a test of Your Sense of Humor.  If this had been a serious post, the Attention Signal you heard would have been followed by shame-filled apologies.  This concludes the test of Your Sense of Humor.

<3