So The Wife's cell phone starts going off around 8:30 last night. By "going off" I mean "vibrating madly on the coffee table." Obviously, it's no one she knows, because they're interrupting Veronica Mars. Being the good spouse, I pick it up, only to be greeted by the following:

I naturally assume that my spouse is up to no good, probably with the local pool boy, but as I'm on my way to the garage for the nail gun she reminds me that She Who Shall Not Be Named was mucking around with the cell phones earlier. Considering the unfamiliar calls I made to Singapore last month (including several to certain, uh, houses of ill repute), this seems eminently plausible. She's figured out how to lock my laptop keyboard and freeze up the TV remote with nary a second thought, after all.
But she doesn't get a MySpace page until she's at least...oh...13 or so.
And don’t forget her ability to telepathically command an army of cats.
Remember that time you called Australia…to see if their toilets really ran backwards…and then you got a huge bill and refused to pay it? That was funny. Good times…good times…
Nothing scares me more than my kids on that blasted Myspace.