Gina told me some jokes a few weeks back.
“Knock, knock”, she says.
“Who’s there,” I naturally respond.
“Poopy”, she says, unable to suppress her amusement. She giggles.
“Poopy who?”
“POOPY, Joe”. She says my name as if I am the dumbest person in the world.
“Knock, knock”, Gina says.
“Who’s there?”
“Boogers”, she says, so amused by this word like only a four year old can be about the idea of mucus.
“Boogers who?” I ask.
“Just BOOGERS, Joe”, she says, clearly frustrated at having to rely on a moron for her conversation.
“Gina”, I said, “if poopy and boogers ever come to your house, turn off the lights and don’t make a sound”. She looks at me as seriously as she is able.
And as seriously/soberly as I could say it, I tell her, “We don’t answer the door for poopy and boogers. Nobody ever, ever… answers the door for poopy and boogers”.
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