Me: My son totaled another car.

Progressive: I see that you insure 3 teen sons?

M: yes

P: *covers phone* HEY GUYS, WE’RE GOING TO ARUBA!

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Don’t confront someone who puts cottage cheese in lasagna, leave crazy alone.


You could replace the zombies on Walking Dead with huggers and it’d be the same scary show.


Waiter: Dessert’s on me.

Me: *leaning close* Where on you, Jeremy?


There’s 3 ways to get something done: do it yourself, hire someone or forbid your kids to do it.


ANCHOR: we now go live to our new field meteorologist who will issue a storm warning

ME: *pointing at the sky* DON’T. YOU. DARE.


I need a man, not a boy. They will have much more structurally sound ideas for me to bypass the lava floor and make it to the blanket fort.


Soccer has such a high risk of injury. The other day, at my son’s game, I crushed my finger folding up a camp chair.


“Honey, did you leave your tools out in the backyard?”
*sounds of sawing*
Oh no
*backyard is filled with dads building a deck*
Get the hose


[sitting at bar next to cute woman]
You remind me of my late wife.
“Oh I’m so sorry.”
Don’t be, *looks across restaurant* there she is now.


[At astronomy convention]

For the last time, Bob. No one wants to see Uranus.