Me? I'm very sweetly (of course, as that's my pretty much all the time disposition) painting a picture at the table, minding my own business.
Dave? He sits down at the table to join me, which I absolutely adore, and then he opens the tackle box.
"Gaaaaaaaaaaaahhhh...." (That's the sound of the tackle box emitting a most undesirable odor.)
Big guy happened to be walking by. "Dad, are you trying to kill mom?"
Dave: "If I was trying to kill mom she'd be dead a long time ago."
Dave: "Just fart, that smell will cover anything." Yeah, I'm not going to ask Dave if he meant me or the big guy.
Woof...where's the Febreeze?
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