Mr. Jones repaired to the drawing room after dinner to read the Wall Street Journal when squealing noise began emanating from the laundry room. As the decibels increased, he called to Mrs. Jones in alarm.
“Helen, what the hell is that noise?”
Just as he uttered this crude interrogatory, the noise stopped and Mrs. Jones stood before him.
“Let’s get two things straight, Bill. First, my name isn’t Helen; second, your filthy language isn’t appreciated.”
The husband scanned his memory to ascertain his mistakes and miscues.
“Aha,” he thought, as her records popped up, “there seems to be a problem.”
“Helen, what the hell is that noise?”
Just as he uttered this crude interrogatory, the noise stopped and Mrs. Jones stood before him.
“Let’s get two things straight, Bill. First, my name isn’t Helen; second, your filthy language isn’t appreciated.”
The husband scanned his memory to ascertain his mistakes and miscues.
“Aha,” he thought, as her records popped up, “there seems to be a problem.”
