Mower and Fuzzy came upstairs tonight to sleep in the master bedroom. I got into bed next to Mower, and we listened to Fuzzy pawing at the bottom of his crate across the room.

Mower: So do you want a backrub before you put out?

Me: (Scoffing) No, I don't want to put out. My hip hurts, your shoulder hurts, and you wouldn't give a very good backrub anyway. I am not putting out.

Mower: It wouldn't last as long as the backrub. Come on. You don't have to put out, you could just do a handjob.

Me: Come on, Fuzzy, you heard him. Give him a pawjob.

Mower: No, Fuzzy scratches.

I left the room at that point. I think I will sleep in the Chrysler Pacifica we rented. I know we were both kidding, but every time I hear Fuzzy scratching at the bottom of his crate, I am going to have nightmares about things only John Waters and Divine think are funny. Mower and I need to seriously evaluate what we think is funny to say, and then only say it around people we want to annoy, not just each other.