Strike while the iron is hot

This morning, while I was putting on my makeup, my hubby asked me, "Where's the iron, babe?"

"Why?" I asked him.

"Because my pants are wrinkly,” he said. "And I have a meeting today. The big shots are gonna be there, and I have to look neat."

"On top of the dryer," I told him.

After a few minutes, I heard him in the other room, looking for the iron. Then him setting up the ironing board, the legs of it making squeak. Then, after a few more minutes, a scream.

"What's wrong?" I said, running to the other room. "What's going on?" I saw him holding his thigh and the iron was on the ground.

"What's wrong with your leg?" I asked him.

"What does it look like is wrong with my leg?" he told me. "It got burned."

"With what?" I asked him.

"The iron."

“Weren’t you using the ironing board?”

He shook his head.

“I ran out of time,” he told me.

“So what were you using, then?”

“Nothing,” he said.

"Nothing?” I asked him. “Don’t tell me you were ironing your pants while they were still on your body," I commented, and when he didn’t answer, I assumed it was true. J