In their nineteen years of marriage, Mr. G. has supplied Mrs. G. with a consistently reliable backlog of gratuitous and nonessential information— some of which is not bullshit true. It is a long-standing family joke to see who can pull one over on Mrs. G. Who can convince her that Sea Biscuit was a three-legged race horse (he wasn't) or that squirrels are not anatomically equipped to pee (they are).
One night, while watching a Mariner's baseball game, Mr. G. was dazzling Mrs. G. with baseball trivia (the first baseballs were made of yarn and cowhide! the first bats were flat-sided and borrowed from the grame of cricket!) when he looked her right in the eye and disclosed this little chestnut: third base is such a crucial and tempestuous spot on the baseball diamond that it is often referred to by baseball buffs and aficionados as the red hot hole.
Fast forward six months to a suburban little league game where Mrs. G. is trying to fit in with the other parents and convince them that even though she homeschools her kids, she is not a humorless shut-in.
Unassuming nice man sitting beside Mrs. G. on the bleachers: that kid really knows how to work third base.
Mrs. G: why yes he does...have I mentioned that I totally believe in evolution?
Unassuming nice man sitting beside Mrs. G. on the bleachers: he's setting the entire pace and tone of the game.
Mrs. G: did you know that many baseball buffs and aficionados refer to third base as the red hot hole?
Unassuming nice man sitting beside Mrs. G. on the bleachers: ........................................
The man's silence was long enough to induce sweat, his eyes glazed over in the alarming manner eyes do when they suspect they might be staring directly into the face of an unstable humorless shut-in...
or a porn producer.
A three-legged race horse ran over Mrs. G's grave.
Her family had a good laugh. Score.
She sat alone for the rest of the season.