"Southern?" she asks, unsure about the word or even what part of speech it may be.
"That's right." I answer, although I'm losing my patience. It is the third time I've had to pronounce the word for her.
"How dya' spell that?" She wants to know.
I'm nearly stunned to silence but offer, "Like, South and --ern."
My wife has that Oh, dear Lord smile playing around her mouth that is meant to placate the unusually thick and fatuous. She keeps it holstered, drawing it out only when absolutely necessary. This is one of those times.
"Terry Southern?" she asks, clicking...
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