Now, me and my wifehave been together
for about 12 yearsat this point,
married almostabout that long.
Oh, yeah.Please, don't clap.
Don't clap for her ass.
Me and my wifeare in synch.
I know everythingabout this woman.
I knowher favorite everything.
When we go to Target,we don't shop.
We run plays.Right?
We have eye signalsfor stuff,
hand signals for stuff.
For example, if my wife hastoo much to drink at a party,
I don't haveto say anything.
She starts yapping too much,I get to just go like this.
Doo, doo, doo.
Three little discreetleg squeezes under the table.
She knows that means,"Put a sock in it, drunkie.
"Time for youto wrap it up.
"Somebody didn't have
"dinner like I suggested.
"Now you're spouting offat the mouth,
"divulgingall the family secrets.
You need to pipe down,or we got to go."
And she's cool with it.That's the best part.
She's like,"Was I talking too much?
Thank you."And it works for me.
So I rub the backof my wife's thumb.
She knows that means,"Cholo, 3:00. Look alive."
He's coming right at us,like I said.
Lot of neck tattoos.
I'm trying to decipher 'emon the fly.
But I didn't watch Prison Break or Oz.
They all mean something,right?
So I'm going,"Why is the rabbit crying?
"What does that mean?
He did somethingto a rabbit."
Me and my wife held each otherfor a little bit, thinking,
"Okay, we had a good run, baby.Now we're going to die."
The guy comes up.
Turns outhe's our son's coach.
No shit.He goes,
"Hey, everybody.My name's Coach Frankie.
But you can call me Rascal."
"See, honey?We're not going to die.
Coach Rascal's here.It's gonna be fine."