check, please!

clearly, mr. nice guy is a bad, bad husband and father-to-be. mrs. nice guy is home alone telecommuting (read: surfing beefcake sites when not plotting her escape) and she just wrote to tell mr. nice guy that she is pecking away at our dwindling food reserves like a little bird. a little, crazed, wild-eyed, feral bird. you see, while mr. nice guy is gleefully twiddling his thumbs at the office (read: surfing beefcake sites when not plotting his escape), mrs. nice guy is slowly starving. and going insane. but what is a mr. nice guy to do? he will be saddled with parents for the next two-and-a-half never-ending days. how will he provide sustenance for his bride and unborn child?

mrs. nice guy e-mails from her crackberry:

maybe i will try and go to the grocery store tomorrow. icky thought - but will probably need to. need food. for me. for guppy.

ok. clearly she is trying to kill me. why does she not just come out and tell mr. nice guy that he is a failure as a husband, as a lover and as a human being with a soul? that e-mail is simply KILLING ME, i tell you. and when i go, it's a one-way ticket to hades. don't get mr. nice guy wrong, he may be devastatingly handsome and irresistibly charming, but he knows exactly which side his burnt toast will get buttered on.


mrs. nice bird


UPDATE: mr. nice guy has just returned from a post-dinner, midnight grocery shopping jaunt. crisis averted, there is now food in the house. sleep soundly, my friends.