Just then, Dad walked into the house. "Honey, I'm home!" He called out, stepping into the kitchen. He could usually find his wife there, at the table, reading a really bad Twilight fanfiction that, for some reason, got turned into a book. What was it called? 50 Shades of Grey? Nah, that was a ridiculous name. Must be 50 Shades of Goats.
He was brought out of his thoughts by the realization that his wife was sprawled on the floor. He looked around. The kitchen counters were clean. The window was open. Birds were chirping outside, eating out of the hand of his arch-nemesis, Dinkleberg. Timmy was standing over his wife, frying pan in hand. The refrigerator doors were closed. There was a giant Flipsie flipping in the corner.
Wait-a-minute - what was Timmy doing holding his favorite frying pan? Any other frying pan would have been fine, but this was his Limited Edition Crimson Chin frying pan! It was limited edition! Timmy was told to never touch it.
"Timmy! What are you doing?!" Timmy's head whipped towards Dad.
"What do you think I'm doing? The CONGA?" Timmy shouted the last word, having an innate hatred for conga lines due to the sleep hypnopaedia and other forms of conditioning he had been put through as a small child.
"Don't yell at me! Put that pan down this instant!"
"Why should I?" Timmy's eyes turned red, like blood, because he's actually a vampire with a deep love for Good Charlotte.
"Because that's my favorite frying pan and I'm going to kick you out of the house if you don't put it down this instant!"
"Okay, okay, I'm dropping it!" Timmy said, having nowhere else to go. He dropped the Limited Edition Crimson Chin frying pan and it landed on Mom's face with a crunch, then fell to the ground beside her with a bang.
Blood started spurting out of her general nose area.
"Oh no!" Dad shouted. "Call the ambulance!"
"You can't tell me what to do!"
"Call the ambulance!"
"No!"
"Yes!"
"No!"
"Yes!"
After 5.8322495 more minutes of arguing like this, Dad finally whipped out his phone and started dialing.
119
No, that wasn't right.
991.
No. . .
999.
Nope.
666.
No.
911.
Yes, that's it!
"Hello, what is your emergency?" The operator answered in a cheery voice.
"My wife is spurting blood from her nose!"
"For how long, sir?"
"Roughly 6.393745948758 minutes!"
"Oh no! She could die! We'll send someone right over!" The operator maintained her upbeat tone as she relayed this information.
"How long will that take?"
"Roughly 2.3465 to 15.6978 minutes." At this point, the numbers joke was getting old, so Dad abruptly hung up.
"Timmy, go to your room." He said, suddenly deadly serious.
"Whatever." Timmy said, having felt his rage leave him by now. He proceeded to trudge up the stairs, slamming his bedroom door behind him for dramatic effect.
While he was waiting for the police to arrive, Dad spotted 50 Shades of Goats on the table. Huh, that's funny - it said 50 Shades of Grey on the cover. How could they make such a horrible mistake when printing the book?
Deciding that some people were just morons, he sat down, picked up the book, and began to read.