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Sunday Morning

“Do you smell that?”

“I don’t smell anything,” says Bob.

He’s smirking. The bastard just let one loose.

“Damn it Bob! I can taste it. You’re disgusting!”

He’s chuckling now, nice. My mother told me not to marry the rotund prick. But did I listen? No. I get up and go to the kitchen. Have to escape that horrid smell.

“Hey babe, while you’re up, beer me,” he says.

How about I brain you! Only three beers left in the twelve pack. He’s a fish. Nine beers and it’s only ten o’ clock.

“Hey, hon, don’t you think you should slow down?” I say.

“I’ll slow down when they stop brewing it. Can you make me some nachos too?” he replies.

Son of bitch. I should go to his mothers house and beat her ass for raising such a dick. Just have to calm down. He goes back to work tomorrow. Then I can have the whole day to recuperate. Deep breath. God I hate football season!