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.