So, the story about Clint. I didn't take pictures, though I really should have so you could have the "big" picture.
Clint had to watch the UT vs. USC game by himself the other night. There was not a friend a valuable and I am not really into football. He seemed to be having a great time anyways, whoopin' and a hollerin'. He had such a good time, he downed an entire twelve pack of beer. Of course after consuming this much beer, Clint has lost any and all volume control. I had to keep reminding him of the three sleeping children. When the Longhorns had finally triumphed, the celebration became even louder, only to be shot down with a prompt sshing. He celebrated by watching the highlights of the game he had just seen in its entirety. That makes no sense at all to me, but whatever floats your boat baby.
Drunkie poo finally made up to bed, after a very long, unsteady trip up the stairs. He (in his very loud, not three children sleeping voice) told me what a great game it was. He really wanted to tell me more, but like I said earlier....NOT THE LEAST BIT INTERESTED. He finally got in bed and then it started. The moaning and groaning. I knew what it meant. I had been through this before. I told him to quit fighting the inevitable and just go puke. He fought it and continued to moan and groan. Finally, off he went to unleash the bowels of hell. I waited for awhile and then decided to go and check on him. Let me first set up the scene. Clint is a fairly large guy. He is six foot almost 200 pounds. Our toilet is a fairly small toilet. I walked in the bathroom and there is Papa Bear sitting on the way too small toilet, face down in the bathroom wastebasket and his pants around his ankles. I asked him if he needed anything and all he did was moan and groan. I told him to call me when he needed me and left the bathroom laughing my ass off. Not 3 minutes later, a barely audible "babe....babe" came from the bathroom. I ran in to offer any assistance I could.
It was obvious the "time" had come. I removed the plastic trash bag from the wastebasket (hoping for an easier wash up). Clint suddenly shoved the wastebasket out from in front of him and fell to his knees. He began to unload on the poor little bath tub. That is when I began to associate my husband with a wondering goat. Pants still around the ankles, all hunched over the tub and voila......a goat.
Clint had to watch the UT vs. USC game by himself the other night. There was not a friend a valuable and I am not really into football. He seemed to be having a great time anyways, whoopin' and a hollerin'. He had such a good time, he downed an entire twelve pack of beer. Of course after consuming this much beer, Clint has lost any and all volume control. I had to keep reminding him of the three sleeping children. When the Longhorns had finally triumphed, the celebration became even louder, only to be shot down with a prompt sshing. He celebrated by watching the highlights of the game he had just seen in its entirety. That makes no sense at all to me, but whatever floats your boat baby.
Drunkie poo finally made up to bed, after a very long, unsteady trip up the stairs. He (in his very loud, not three children sleeping voice) told me what a great game it was. He really wanted to tell me more, but like I said earlier....NOT THE LEAST BIT INTERESTED. He finally got in bed and then it started. The moaning and groaning. I knew what it meant. I had been through this before. I told him to quit fighting the inevitable and just go puke. He fought it and continued to moan and groan. Finally, off he went to unleash the bowels of hell. I waited for awhile and then decided to go and check on him. Let me first set up the scene. Clint is a fairly large guy. He is six foot almost 200 pounds. Our toilet is a fairly small toilet. I walked in the bathroom and there is Papa Bear sitting on the way too small toilet, face down in the bathroom wastebasket and his pants around his ankles. I asked him if he needed anything and all he did was moan and groan. I told him to call me when he needed me and left the bathroom laughing my ass off. Not 3 minutes later, a barely audible "babe....babe" came from the bathroom. I ran in to offer any assistance I could.
It was obvious the "time" had come. I removed the plastic trash bag from the wastebasket (hoping for an easier wash up). Clint suddenly shoved the wastebasket out from in front of him and fell to his knees. He began to unload on the poor little bath tub. That is when I began to associate my husband with a wondering goat. Pants still around the ankles, all hunched over the tub and voila......a goat.
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