“With as stiff as you are, I fear my son will be marrying a wooden puppet. He'll be picking splinters out of his—” “Jesus fucking Christ,” I groan. “Quit talking.” “I'll make sure to buy him a magnifying glass then,” Molly says, one corner of her lips curled upward. “For the splinters or his penis?”
Just casually like "youre gonna get married AND he still has a tiny penis"
