“So,” I told Hubby, “I asked Squirt if he turned his report and he tells me he forgot! AGAIN.”
“Are you telling me that boy missed another deadline? He’ll be kicked out of the program!”
“Nope. It turns out he was just kidding me. But holy cow, I really blew up at him.”
“Ha!” Hubby bellowed. “Face it, babe, you got pwned.”
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.
“‘Pwned’? ‘PWNED’? You’re gonna use gamer lingo on ME? And whose side are you on, anyway?”
Hubby started to do a bobble thing with head as he wagged his finger at me. “Babe,” he said, “I am hippest of the hip. The coolest of the cool. And take it from me: you got pwned.”
What a turncoat. I mean, really, is it too much for me to expect my man to back me up when I need it? Especially when he supplied half the DNA to a kid who forgets deadlines as frequently as he scarfs down chow?
The kids came in at that moment so I could say no more, but the battle lines had been drawn.
Hubby knew it, too. He smiled.
I smiled right back. Heh! I’d show HIM pwning.
“So dad,” said Squirt, “Grandma just told me she’s mad because she lost money on you.”
“Hunh?”
“Yeah! Grandma says she bet Kat that you could figure out how to replace the fuses on the Halloween lights before Mom could, but Mom beat you to it and Grandma had to pay up.”
It took me some seconds to get past my mother-in-law’s lack of faith in my fuse-changing abilities. But then I realized my opportunity for retaliation had popped up much more quickly than I’d expected.
“Face it, babe,” I told Hubby, “you got PWNED.”
“Ugh! Mom!” said Tiger. “You can’t say ‘pwned’.”
“What?” I was indignant. “Why not?”
“You’re too—er, um… you just don’t know how to use it right.”
Hubby smiled. “Oh, she knows how to use it,” he said. “In fact, your mother was just telling me how SQUIRT PWNED HER YESTERDAY.”
Tiger cringed again. “Ugh! You shouldn’t use it, either, Dad.”
Hubby looked at me with raised eyebrows. He apparently expected the two of us to deal as allies against this blatant age discrimination. Yeah, right. Like I’d EVER collaborate with a traitor.
Hubby’s head began bobbling again. He wagged his finger at Tiger. “Yo, boy! In case you haven’t noticed, I am hippest of the hip. The coolest of the cool. And if I say you are pwned, YOU ARE PWNED.”
Squirt shuddered. “You’re right,” he told Tiger, “somehow it sounds wrong when they say it.”
“Hello!” thundered Hubby. “I am THE PWNER!”
The boys grimaced and squirmed. I have to admit, I was enjoying their ageist discomfort. Hubby was a turncoat, sure, but these pups were trying to curtail our right to free speech!
“Yeah!” I said, brushing aside my plot to leave Hubby to the teenage wolves. “You might say Dad is the original opPWNent.”
“Ha!” Hubby roared. “Good one, babe!” We high-fived each other. “Just call me MR. PWN!”
The boys rolled their eyes, but Hubby was just warming up. “I am the pwnER, not the pwnEE!”
“Look what you’ve started,” said Squirt.
“Right,” said Tiger, “like you didn’t pwn Mom in the first place.”
“I am he,” Hubby proclaimed loud enough for the entire cul-de-sac to hear, “WHO PWNS UNCEASINGLY!”
Indeed. The man may need to work on his marital teamwork skills, but when it comes to unceasing pwnage, nobody can squelch teen rebellion with it like he can.
Yes, tails are useful things. I’m sure Mojo wishes he had one, too, because it would come in handy for dog-human communication via wagging or drooping or holding between his legs, not to mention waving banners with messages scrawled on them like, “If you think I’m going back to Obedience, you can BITE ME.”
