Better than Funyons

I worked out tonight! Which is awesome! Because I'm fat!

But I won't be for much longer. Because I am powerful. And fit.

Just under all the jiggly bits.

Anywho, here's the conversation I had with Phubby *who is unreasonable, as you soon will see*:

Me: *taking off sports bra through neck hole of tank top (OMG, I'm hot)*  Weird. *sniiiiff* Dude. That's so weird.

Phubby: What?

Me: My bra. *sniff, sniff* It smells like *sniff* tortilla chips.

Phubby: What?

Me: It does. Like corn chips. It's weird. Do you want to smell it?

Phubby: What?

Me: *burying nose deep into salty black cotton* Seriously. It's like I spilled some in there. I didn't eat any today, though. *sniff* Dude. Smell this.

Phubby: NO!

Me: Oh, what. It's gross now?

Phubby: Do you see me ripping off my underwear and asking you to smell my grundle drippings just because they smell like cottage cheese?

Me: Cottage cheese doesn't really have a smell.

Phubby: OK. Fine. Do I throw my underwear in your face and ask you to whiff their sour creamy scent?

Me: Again, sour cream has very little scent. You're doing a very poor job. Genitalia is different. Boobs are just ... boobs.

Phubby: So I'm Judgy McBoob, now?

Me: *throws bra in laundry bin, rolls eyes, sighs* I won't dignify that with an answer.

EDIT:
Conversation of five seconds ago -
Phubby: It's 10 after 11, and I'm not even worried because tomorrow, there's going to be a snow delay. And, if there is, and you take a shower, I'll take the tongue patrol up Mount Tostito.

Me: Ugh!

Phubby: Oh, that's too far?

Me: *typing*

Phubby: What are you doing?! You're not blogging that, are you?! I can't even have a conversation anymore. It's like being on a reality show!

He's wrong about that. If this were a reality show, we'd have a hot tub. And he'd have to worry about much worse conditions than snack-flavored breasts.