You can read it.
I get a call on the way home from work. “Honey, where’s the hammer?”
“Why?” I ask.
“I’m fixing dinner.”
My little Martha Stewart. Post prison.
Oh, she was out hunting, literally, down something for dinner.
I wasn’t hunting. I was only beating the meat.
Next time beat your meat with an iron skillet. Works better.
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Oh, she was out hunting, literally, down something for dinner.
I wasn’t hunting. I was only beating the meat.
Next time beat your meat with an iron skillet. Works better.