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Memo to my husband

To: The most awesome husband in the universe

From: Your loving wife

Date: July 6, 2011

Subject: My imminent admittance into a padded cell OR solitary shack on a deserted island never to be seen again.

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While I value your devotion to our partnership and find your companionship both tender and hilariously joyful, as one of the primary shareholders in this company I have a few concerns that need to be addressed.

That is a plastic bag  filled with your jogging clothes. The clothes that you wore the last time you went running, 5 days ago. While I appreciate you containing the foul stench within the confines of this non-recyclable, doggy potty bag, I’m a tad bewildered. Has said bag been sitting on the bedroom floor because I’m supposed to wash them? Have you ever smelled the swampy, crotch-rot odor that emanates from a plastic bag filled with male running clothes that have been stewing for 5 days? I have. I dry-heaved. No more. As we cannot afford to purchase a Hazmat suit for such purposes, from now on all plastic bags filled with anything found on the bedroom floor have a 2 day grace period. They will be properly disposed of (in the garbage) on day 3.

As the partner primarily in charge of all company food services, I am most appreciative of your attempts at cooking. The abundance of cold potato and leek soup, however, has to end. It would be in the best interest of the entire entity if you would:

A. Cease from cooking any more vichyssoise, or cold soups in general, and

B. Find another god damn recipe.

For the past 10 years this partnership has been inundated with seeds, be they sunflower or squash. On the carpet, in between the couch cushions, spit encrusted into numerous mason jars and fine pint glasses, in my shoes, stuck to the bottom of my bare feet, clogging up the kitchen sink and kicked into the corners of every room. While I do sometimes relish a company field trip to Jeff’s Parrots of the World in Rockville Centre, I don’t want to live among the birds. Our current residence is starting to resemble a bird house. Please remedy this.

I would appreciate your immediate attention to the matters mentioned above. Failure to comply could result in one of the following:

  1. A dissolution of the formal partnership.
  2. A dissolution of my mind.
  3. A drop kick to the jugular.
  4. A trance-like state involving banging my head against the wall or hair pulling.
  5. A solo escape to a deserted island free of stench-filled running clothes and cold leek soup.
Thank you for your time. XO.
Cc: your future second wife
Bcc: your mother

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Sometimes, in the middle of the night, I have to fight the urge to smother my handsome husband.

Here’s why:

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