So last night at the Bees game Ken Cannon toddled off to buy dinner for the family. He came back with a paper tray loaded with excellent crap, including a hot dog slathered in mustard. It's like that hot dog went to a hot dog spa and said, "Girls! Give me a mustard bath!" Which they did. OBV.
Anyway. Somehow that paper tray loaded with excellent crap tipped a little, causing the hot dog to do a graceful swan dive straight into Ken Cannon's lap, which (in addition to surprising Ken Cannon) caused the hot dog to share some of that mustard love. A lot of that mustard love. It ended up all over someone's shirt and pants, and so that same someone in the earshot of many children and their parents shouted, "S#$%!"
Seriously. IT WAS EPIC.
Everyone turned around to look. They even stopped the game so the outfield could turn and gape at Ken Cannon in surprise.
I, of course, started to laugh because that's what I always do whenever I get pulled over by a cop or receive bad news or watch my husband struggle with a wayward hot dog in public. I laugh. And then I told all the kids sitting around us that they shouldn't say that word until they're old farts wrangling hot dogs at baseball games. Like us.
Meanwhile, once he showed that hot dog WHO WAS BOSS, Ken asked if I was going to write about this. And I said should I? And he let out a resigned sigh. And I took that as a yes.
I love that guy. I really, really do.