Documents from the Chronology of Miscommunication
I come in the door, exhausted, hot, carrying a heavy bag and unable to hear anything because I have The Ramones blaring full volume in my ear. “Gimme, gimme shock treatment! Gimme, gimme shock treatment! I wanna wanna shock treatment!” In my hands I am holding a bunch of papers - fliers from our mailbox destined for the kitchen garbage bucket.
Me: What what?
Wife: You were handing papers to me.
Me: No, I wasn’t. I was kindly, patiently, lovingly waiting for you to get out of the way.
Wife: Mukatsuku! (“Bastard!”)