Hey, now. After we had to come downstairs to let you into the elevator vestibule in the parking garage because you lost your keys, you started to say something about cheese, and I knew exactly where that train was headed. I distinctly remember doing my patented "FOCUS and MAINTAIN Klovve face hold" and telling you that we did not want cheese; we just wanted sex.
Yet, there you were, standing in the hallway in the wee hours of the morning, interrupting naked time with a cheese plate. (In hindsight, the cheese plate would have been an excellent idea had we not just come from a late-night trip to Justine's.
You know my house is a naked house. Walk through the door, take your clothes off. Them's the rules. Maybe if you had been naked when you brought the cheese, we would have been more welcoming.
The last naked party resulted in ridiculous photos and champagne spilled on my floor. You were invited, but you decided to stay home and watch The Office that night. This is all just payback for snubbing me in favor of Steve Carrell.
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