Have you seen the Carl's Junior commercial where a man is trying to cook breakfast but can't grasp the concept of eggs? He bangs one on the side of the stove and crushes another, apelike, in his fist. Pretty soon he's covered in yolk and decides to go to Carl's Junior.

I can't remember the slogan, but I think it should be: "If you're a single guy ... and you're retarded ... come to Carl's Junior. [Enter jingle]. Carl's Junior, the original one-star restaurant."

I've already spent time on my wife's language flubs -- column and standup -- so we'll just say that she started speaking English when her Spanish was only half-installed and neither language seemed to profit.

Yesterday my wife and I were talking about what we'll do with our winnings when we definitely and without doubt win the lottery this weekend. Yahaira said that she wanted to help the people of Utopia.

I tilted my head like the RCA dog.

"You know ... that place where everyone is starving."

"You mean Ethiopia!"

Normally I try not to laugh, but this one hit me from the side. I laughed and laughed until my wife closed my mouth manually. With her fingernails.

"You know what I meant," she said. "Isn't that what counts?"

"In a perfect world, Love. In a perfect world."

Gary Larson did a cartoon where an orchestra's cymbal guy -- whose only job is to bang the cymbals at the right moment -- is thinking, "I won't screw up, I won't screw up, I won't screw up..."

Caption: Carl screws up.

My wife and I recently had our bathroom counters refinished. I argued that finishing is something you should do only once. Otherwise, they oughta call it pausing or resting. My wife offered me a knuckle sandwich.

The guy from Classic Counter finished up -- again -- and warned me, as you might a small child, "Do NOT touch this counter for 24 hours."

He snapped his fingers and said, "24 hours."

Later that afternoon, I was running around on my way to the gym. I remembered the counter guy's face and said out loud, "Jason, do not set your gym bag in the bathroom."

The phone rang, a telemarketer. I cursed the recorded voice and then the 21st century. My wife gave me a hug, which squeezed my bladder, which sent me to pee real quick before I left ... and where do you suppose I set my gym bag?

ON THE BLOODY COUNTER!

The bag peeled away slowly with a juicy, sucking sound. Somewhere in the distance a cymbal crashed.