“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!