The funny part is when you get walked in on by your wife. At first she gets all pissed because you're doing it...you ask her to just let you fuck her instead, she gives a stupid excuse why she doesn't want to, so you kick her out the room and continue and tell this is why you're doing it.
I was not writing down a list of porn, you idiot. I was writing a letter to my penpal in Guadalajara. His name is Khaladi and he wanted a list of 80s hair metal bands to download. I quickly shut the laptop over because I didn't want my sister to think I was choking my chicken to pictures of Martin Tyler (I accidentally typed "Gary Neville's new best pal" instead of "Aerosmith." Honest mistake and fuck you).
My pants around my ankles mean nothing. Are you a spastic? Do you like to lick your own elbow? Or try to? This nonsense about walking around with one's pants around one's ankles meaning they were QUITE OBVIOUSLY masturbating is, well, frankly, it's nonsense. I am beyond offended you would think this. If I was masturbating you would hear the sounds of goats and Komodo dragons and very likely Yorkshire terriers. Did you hear those things? Any of those things? No, I don't believe you did. This is not fucking MTV, you mong.
Who are you and why are you always in my house? Would you object to me murdering you right this second?