An even truer story:My Mom: By the way, your sister Ellen was complaining again that little Justin keeps taking pinking shears to his trousers and making skorts out of them.My Dad: Who are you?Me: That's mom, dad.My Dad: Your mom's dead?Me: What? No, she's sitting there prating.My Dad: She's what? She's disintegrating? Please, young man, get me out of here. I can't stand the smell!
Hah! That was quite the transition.
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