John: 'Ah, my dearest Brea, most precious, beautiful, and wise above all other women! How I have missed you in these long hours of our absence. How faired you and our lovely progeny on this day?'
(Ok, fine. What he really said was more along the lines of, 'Hey baby. Gah, I'm glad to be out of the store; my shift was crazy long. How was your day with the kids?' But come on. My translation sounded way better.)
Brea: 'I'm glad you asked; it was great! We accomplished a lot, caught up on school and laundry, shot the bows out back, got all our church clothes picked out ...' blah, blah, brag about productiveness, blah, blah, blah
John: 'Wow, that's impressive. The house looks great, by the way. Any reason for getting so much done?'
(I thought for about 3 seconds about being offended by that last comment, but seeing how he made an accurate observation, I decided to take the compliment and run with it.)
Brea: 'Ok, this might sound a silly ...'
(John raised his eyebrow at that.)
Brea: '... a little sillier than normal, but I had this dream last night, and I was taking names and kicking ass in the middle of this medieval battle ...'
(both eyebrows were raised after that)
Brea: '... ANYWAY, so when I woke up, I felt like listening to Wagner's Ride of the Valkyries. So I did. I've always loved that one, and it set me in a very conquering mood, and I've decided I'm doing the same thing tomorrow. If it works, I'm totally adding it to my morning routine.'
John: 'The ride of the who the whaaaaaaaaa?'
Brea: 'Richard Wagner? German opera composer? Ride of the Valkyries? Any of this ringing a bell?'
John: (crickets started chirping)
Brea: 'Seriously? Um ... ok. Hold on, don't go anywhere.'
(I ran off to get my laptop, and pulled up Ride on YouTube, and played it for him.)
John: 'Oh, you mean Kill The Wabbit! Yeah, I know about that composer. You know, they used to play him at a lot of Nazi rallies. Hitler was a big fan of his.'
Brea: (long, chirping-filled pause as I tried to figure out which question to ask first) 'Whaaaa ... ? They did? He was? Wait, kill the wabbit? Dude, I'm not a Nazi!'
John: 'Chill. I didn't call you a Nazi. Come on, Kill The Wabbit! Bugs Bunny? Elmer Fudd? Any of this ringing a bell for you?'
Brea: (cricket noises swell to symphonic proportions)
John: (raises the eyebrow again)
Brea: 'Wait, the one where Elmer Fudd looks like a Viking trashcan? Yeah, I remember that one.'
John: 'Cool. I was getting worried that you hadn't heard of it.'
(I just looked at him for a minute.)
Brea: 'Isn't that supposed to be my line?'
So now, do I have shrill Valkyries screeching in German stuck in my head? Nooooooooo ... I've frickin' got frickin' Elmer Fudd singing frickin' 'kill the waaabbit! Kill the waaaaaaaaabbit!!' stuck on a terrible loop in my frickin' head. I liked it better when I was dreaming about opening up a can of medieval WHOOP ASS.
So now I just may have to kill John, and talking about putting a damper on my Mother's Day. 'No, officer, I haven't seen
the tiny pieces of his body that I buried out back John this morning. I'm very confused, also!'
If he starts singing Rebecca Black's Friday (oh, yes, that's right. He does it to annoy me!) at any point tonight or tomorrow, IT'S ON.
I'm just saying.
Now where did I put that hacksaw ... ?
(No, I'm mostly probably totally kidding. Really. Promise.)