You see her.
The anthesis of evil. Standing there, foot tapping with a sour smirk across her face.
Her eyes trace the distance between you and the NFL game like it’s a game of pong. As if she had something to say but can’t quite say it. You can’t quite place it, but that judgmental ass look isn’t exactly making you optimistic about your situation.
You shift side to the side on the couch, hoping it’ll level out the tension. It doesn’t. The game is on and like any good American – you need to cast aside all commitments because laziness isn’t without work.
And that’s when you hear it. The question that’s not really a question.
“Are you really going to spend all day watching the NFL?”
So you decide to fight fire with dynamite.
You wave your hand to the side, motioning her to move. It’s ballsy.
“Did you really just tell me to move?” She croaks.
You squint your eyes like you’re confused. It only confuses your wife more.
“Jerry! Did you really just tell me to move?”
You start scratching your head like you’ve got a tick. You pick up the pace and start going to town. You’re furious. Hair flies from your scalp to the couch.
“Honey? What’s happening to your head? Are you okay?!” Panic creeps into her voice.
You start screaming, bloody murder.
“Grab the lotion, grab the lotion!”
You roll off the couch and thud off the ground sending the house shaking to it’s cylinders.
“We don’t have any!”
“I need it!”
Your wife’s head goes side to side, looking around the house as if she misplaced a fact. With a frustrated sigh, you hear her keys rattling as she grabs her purse.
“Ok… damnit! I’ll be right back.”
You’re on the floor still scratching your head, when you stop.
A smile stretches across your face. You get up and pull the window curtains back.
You exhale and dust yourself off.
You waddle over to the couch, let out a fart, and breath in.
The NFL is back, and you just scored a touchdown.
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