I know I'm a terrible person. I know it. The poor women at my counter continued to talk about her late husband, how wonderful he was, and how important it was for her to honor him by decorating a corner of the house around his urn of ashes. All the while I'm literally biting the inside of my cheeks to keep from laughing in her face.
I know! Now you hate me too. "Why were you laughing at this sweet little old lady?!" You ask in a horrified voice.
Because, not one time in her monologue did she actually say "my husband's urn." Every single time she said "my husband's urinal." That's right. U-R-I-N-A-L. That was a priceless mental picture.
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