I just picture my wife coming home from one of her cruises with her weaving guild. I pick her up at the dock after not seeing her for a week with my head in a bandage. I tell her,
"This gay prostitute in his underwear was in our house. I was fighting with him over a hammer when police showed up.
"Well, I was in my underwear too, because that's how I sleep, you know that. Because it was 2:30 in the morning. Yeah, I'm getting to that hon, let me tell it.
"They ordered us to drop the hammer, so I did and the guy hit me on the head with it. Believe that asshole? Seriously!
"I was in the hospital for a couple of days. Thinking of you the whole time, baby. I couldn't wait for you to get home and take care of . . . Why was a gay prostitute in the house at 2:30AM? It's almost funny actually, but it's perfectly innocent . . . "
Is Nancy Italian by blood or did she just marry one? Because Mrs. Flops is Italian by blood, and I sure as hell wouldn't try to sell her that story so close to a pier.