Marty slid into bed hoping he would not wake up his wonderful wife. He failed. He sat and stared at her sultry eyes. He gingerly moved his Germanesque hand along her long glossy, jet black hair. He even went as far down as her breasts. "What are you doing?" she demured with one eye open. "Oh nothing. Just thinking," he said.
"What about?"
"Nothing."
"Don't give me that shit. You woke me up so spill it."
"Ok, ok. I have come to a conclusion."
"Yes?"
"Well, it's just that I think you can give Will Ferrell the crappiest script and he'll still make you laugh. You know?"
Unsure how to react she pauses and pushes her head back into the pillow and stares up at the semi-plastered ceiling. She turns over and playfully looks at Marty.
"You're my boy blue. Even though you're a ham at two in the morning. Come here."
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