*At a gas station on a snowy pass* Dad: Hey look, traffic! Go play in it! Me: I don't feel like being killed. Dad: Don't worry, they'll steer off the road and kill themselves first!

Dad: Don't go into the dark, the Boogie Man will get you. Me: You're the Boogie man, and the Tooth Fairy, and Santa Claus, and the Easter Bunny Dad: Don't talk about my sex life.

Stepdad: When I die, have me cremated. Then, put my ashes in the compost. Me: Why would we put you in the compost? Stepdad: So you can put it on the vegetables and eat me! Mom: No! I'm not eating you! Not when you're dead anyway. Me: o.o

(In the living room about 15 minutes before Thanksgiving Dinner with 20 family members and Grandma.) Gram: I think somebody farted. Younger Brother: You know what they say Gram, they who smelled it, dealt it. Gram: (laughs) That's true. (*Pause*) Gram; No, I was wrong, somebody's crapped themselves.

Me (7 Year old): Mom, what if aliens landed in the back yard, ate all our food, and left? Dad: Sounds like our relatives. Mom: (Glares at dad)

(After fetching Gramma's mail): Me: You got another funeral home ad. Gramma: Again? I got 3 yesterday! Soon they'll be sending a loaded rifle and asking me to f***ing shoot myself!

Me: Talked to that guy. Mom: Did you tell him you were available and easy? Me: Um, what? Mom: Well, it's been real. I'm going to bed. See you tomorrow!