In an effort to curb the compulsive channel-surfing that I am wont to do, Michael and popped "Charlie Wilson's War" into the DVD player after the kids were tucked in last night.
(It is here worth mentioning that the kids almost never re-emerge from their rooms after tuck-in, so we were reasonable in our assumption that we were "safe.")
We were only about 15 minutes into the movie -- the middle of Philip Seymour Hoffman's argument with his boss -- when Garrick poked his head into our bedroom. The dialogue at the time was running thusly:
"Fuck me? Whaddaya mean fuck me? Fuck YOU!"
"Who is this fucking guy? I don't even know what he's fucking doing here!"
and so forth.
It was beyond the laws of physics to grab the mute button in time.
Luckily, Garrick was so intent on asking me what happened to the bathroom nightlight (the bulb burnt out a few nights ago and I haven't replaced it yet) that I don't think he even noticed that strange word eminating from the Oscar-winning actor's mouth.
Asperger's has it's small compensations.