Aug 4, 2008

Someday, maybe she'll cook for me.


And do you know what I will do with whatever food she lovingly prepares and serves me? Pick it up, whine, "I don't LIKE this!" and throw it on the floor. If I'm feeling really frisky, I may sweep my arm across the table, sending plate, flatware, beverage and napkin flying. Then I will look up at her innocently as she gasps in horror and ask sweetly, "What happened?" While she's cleaning up, I'll cry as though she's done something unforgivable to me, then piss my pants to top it all off.

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