We'll Call Him Mr. Destructo

Last night my husband came home sporting the biggest grin I've ever seen. And yes, I was a little suspicious. Didn't need to be though. It's not another woman putting that smile on his face. It's the opportunity to do some damage.

You see, the "cash for clunkers" program that the government is touting means that there are several cars ready for disposal, sitting on the dealership lot. Turns out there's a procedure that must be done for each car, rendering it completely destroyed and unable to be driven forever and ever amen. And guess who got his sexy butt outta bed at 4:30 this morning, just so he could be a part of said procedure? Nooooo, not Ryan Seacrest, silly! He doesn't have a sexy butt! It was my husband. DUH!

Sorry, I'm dieting and it's making me a bit silly.

Mr. Clairol scampered off to work this morning, so that he could pour a special solution into the motor of these cars, then run them until the motor seizes. Yeah, it didn't sound fun to me either, but judging from the glee in his eyes, this beats our wedding night for sheer anticipation.

I'm baffled, because I've always assumed that destroying a car would hurt his mechanic's heart. Much like a doctor would be repelled by unnecessary harm to a person. Not the case. Turns out, that boy loves to destroy stuff, cars particularly. He's playing with his best work buddy and they are tearing the crap at of these cars. In his words, "Honey, I get to make stuff explode! YEAH!"

And he gets paid for it. His life is stinkin' beautiful right now.