“Supercalifragelisticexpialidocious!“

“What the…”

“Sorry,” I said.

She chided, “Honestly dear.”

I shrugged and sighed, “Sorry, liebchen.”

Her eyes were heavy, her patience thin.

“Must you experiment in the kitchen?” she queried.

I looked around at my creations, scattered and flawed.

“I suppose not,” I replied, though I thought why not.

“Okay, explain to me one more time what you are doing.”

I grinned and launched into my explanation with, “This could make money.”

At this point I knew I had her attention, and she knew it.

She countered, “After all the mess and chaos you’ve made, and the money spent…”

“I know,” I jumped in to cut her off, “and it’ll all be worth it.”

“So you keep saying, but it’s been weeks, and the house smells horrible,” my wife pressed.

This was the moment, and all I could say was, “How much do you know about meth?”

I’d always thought of my wife as both non-violent and open minded, but apparently I was rather mistaken.