oh how the mighty fall

Okay, there are those of you that have been reading lo these three-thousand and a half some-odd days who operate under the banner of belief wherein my husband is a saint. Conversely, I am (lovingly, sure) viewed as the raucous asshole thrown in the mix to test his patient and longsuffering ass all to Toronto and back.

In the interest of fairness, and in order to ding up his halo just a tiny bit, I find it necessary to share with you our post-dinner conversation of earlier this evening.

“Yeah, I sent Watson a message on Facebook yesterday telling him I was sorry for stacking his books so that they’d fall every time he opened the locker….the bad thing was, he gave me the combination and I don’t think he ever even suspected it was me.”

Maxim was mean to another person. Purposely. I KNOW, RIGHT??

But that’s not the half of it. He tells me stories about his Boy Scout days from time to time, and while most of them are indeed hysterical (with some having the caveat of being some degree of disgusting, as well) they involve a fair exchange of that merry-pranskster-mildly-homo bonding that boys of all shapes and sizes and all income brackets share; it’s typically not one-sided (to read in girlspeak, ‘cruel’) in nature.

After the lockerlanche confession, he let fly another:

“Maaaan, we were at Boy Scout camp one year and while nobody was around, I pissed on the roof of Watson’s tent. When the scout leader found out, he made me sleep in the tent with Watson.

“Under the side I pissed on.”

“Ahhhahaha,” said I, “ooh-hoo, heehee, you deserved that, nasty.”

“Didn’t matter,” Maxim replied smugly with a no-teeth grin, “I waited around in my sleeping bag until everybody went to sleep, then I got out and pissed on the other side, too.”