McGee

Twelve-Year-Old: Holy Mother McGee! Stop breaking the windows!

Security

Twelve-Year-Old: Phil Swift does not sell state secrets!
Me: Now that’s a lot of damage… to national security.

Consent

Fifteen-Year-Old: Consent, Mom, consent!
Wife: For smelling cheese?

Plywood

Me [to Twelve-Year-Old]: Oh, are we playing the stick-out-the-lip game?
…
I won.
…
My phone thinks I said “plywood.”

Taken

Me: I’ve taken so many medications, it’s no wonder my poop is coming out weird.

Jammies

Me: I like the idea of Heimdall in his monkey jammies.

Reaper

Me: I just saw a commercial with the Grim Reaper, come to claim someone’s refrigerator.

Still

Twelve-Year-Old: Would you please just let me stab you, in the face? For the love of God, it’s not that hard to stand still.

Haiti

Me:  I admit, so putting the ring on somebody who was unconscious was a—
Friend:  Bad idea.
Me:  Yeah, bad idea.  Like a When I going to get back to Haiti? moment.

Smoke

Me: I thought that dead tree was smoke.