When I stop into these thrift stores (does it count as "stopping in" when you spend upwards of two hours there?), I like to check out the discarded dishes and mugs. A few years back, I found a three-handled "safety" mug for my dad -- which was relevant because he's a safety director and because Mom's diminutive for him is "Mr. Safety" (or, if she's feeling saucy, he's promoted to Captain).
I thought that would be the apogee of my mug adventures. But it seems I was wrong. I imagine you can follow the thought process without much input from the Mrs:
Um, what is that?
No, really...what is that?
Oh, of course. (They don't call it the Taint of the Middle East* for nothing.)
*Pretty sure no one calls it this, with the possible exception of my friend Shaun.
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There once was a woman who lived in a shoe.