My husband occasionally does things on purpose to make me crazy.
Today, for instance, we were driving home from our favorite pizza parlor's carry-out window with a delicious-smelling pizza reposing on the back seat when he suddenly remarked in a conversational tone, "Hey! The other day I picked up a hitchhiker."
"You did what?" I gasped, hand to my heart.
"I picked up a hitchhiker," he said casually.
"What in the world were you thinking?"
"I was thinking, 'there's a guy who looks like he needs a ride,'" he answered.
"Okay. Have you never read Stephen King?" I asked in a terse voice.
"You mean that Stephen King who writes works of fiction? You know, stuff that doesn't really happen?"
"Did Ted Bundy hitchhike or pick up hitchhikers or something like that?"
"I don't know," he said firmly. "All I know is that this guy was about one hundred twenty pounds, kind of an old dude, and he looked pretty tired. I could have taken him, easy."
"Oh, yeah, him and his switchblade or his...his...gun," I said sarcastically. "Strangely enough, you don't have to be a big ol' muscular guy when you're packing heat."
"'Packing heat'?" he said, laughing. "'Packing heat'? Are you watching Miami Vice re-runs on cable?"
"No," I said with dignity. "I watch news shows on cable. And there are....lots of stories about hitchhikers on the news."
"Oh, please," he said, rolling his eyes. "Honey, this was some dude in his fifties with a long, grey ponytail and a big back pack and he needed a ride and I-...."
"HE HAD A BACK PACK??!!" I interrupted, my alert setting cranked up to full crisis mode.
"Yeah, he said he wanted to see the continental United States and he had all his gear in his back pack. He said he was glad for a ride because it weighed eighty pounds."
"Eighty pounds, huh? Well, listen, my friend. I bet eighty pounds is about the size of two dismembered legs and arms and the head of a small-framed woman," I said.
"Oh, he didn't look like that type," said my husband, grinning wickedly. "He was a quiet sort who never gave me any trouble, kind of kept to himself, friendly, but sort of distant. Just a loner type, a middle-aged white guy traveling anonymously across the country..."
"Stop it. Stop it, stop it, STOP IT!!!!"
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