Stuffed with Stouffers


It’s been a while since I’ve written, but I’m currently in a trans-fat coma so I thought it would be a good time to write.

I just finished a Turkey-bacon Crustini and I feel like I may have just swallowed the seed of the beast. I swear to Jesus if some kind of alien/parasite bursts out of my stomach later today I’m going to be really pissed off.

I suppose I should be saying congratulations on finding a woman who’d dare to say yes to your marriage proposal (when she took you for dinner). I’d go off on a tangent about that, but right now I have other things I need to address—like not letting your (future) wife go grocery shopping by herself or else she’ll come back with frozen dinners for lunch for you that are 50% trans fat.

Seriously, I simultaneously feel stoned and nauseous. After two minutes on high in the microwave, that thing was full of liquid hot magma cheese and edible turkey/bacon bits.

It’s like she’s trying to kill me and we don’t even have insurance, so she’s not even in it for the money. She just wants me to die. And that, my friend, is basically the perfect analogy for marriage.

So when the day finally comes, when you say I do, make sure you dive head-first and—if God loves you—no one will have filled the pool.

I think I’m going to throw up,


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