Knock. Knock.
I freeze mid butt-wipe and slowly look over as if my neck would squeak if I turned it any faster. That banging sounded like it was right at the door, the bathroom door. Who’s in my house?
Knock. Knock.
Oh, my god! What can I use to defend myself? I reach for my hairbrush—no, the Windex— no, the bathroom scale!
Knock. Knock.
Lifting the scale and lifting my pants, I take a quivering step forward and squeak, “Who’s there?”
The answer is immediate: “Satan.”
My quivering intensifies. “Satan who?”
“Caught you Satan on the toilet! Muahaha!”
Instead of rolling my eyes, I attack, bursting through the door, swinging my scale left then right…
He got away. I shake my fist: “Damn you dad-joking devil! Your puns are doomed to pun-gatory!” WhAT did I jUsT SAYYYY? “No… no, please.” I fall to my knees. “Father, forgive thy servant for I know not what I hathhhhh spoken.”
