I'm going fishing.
I'm going to drink myself dangerously stupid and stand by a
stream with a stick in my hand, while the fish swim by in
complete safety.
It's a guy thing.
There is no rational thought pattern connected with it, and you
have no chance at all of making it logical.
Can I help with dinner?
Why isn't it already on the table?
Uh huh, Sure, honey, or Yes, dear.
Absolutely nothing. It's a conditioned response.
It would take too long to explain.
I have no idea how it works.
I'm getting more exercise lately.
The batteries in the remote are dead.
We're going to be late.
Now I have a legitimate excuse to drive like a maniac.
Take a break, baby, you're working too hard.
I can't hear the game over the vacuum cleaner.
You expect too much of me.
You want me to stay awake?
That's women's work.
It's difficult, dirty, and thankless.
You know how bad my memory is.
I remember the theme song to 'F Troop', the address of the first
girl I ever kissed and the Vehicle Identification Numbers of
every car I've ever owned, but I forgot your birthday.
Oh, don't fuss. I just cut myself, it's no big deal.
I have severed a limb, but will bleed to death before I admit I'm
hurt.
I do help around the house.
I once put a dirty towel in the laundry basket.
What did I do this time?
What did you catch me doing?
I'm not lost. I know exactly where we are.
I'm lost. I have no idea where we are, and no one will ever see
us alive again.
We share the housework.
I make the messes, you clean them up.
This relationship is getting too serious.
You're cutting into the time I spend with my truck.