“If your wife’s phone is going off tonight… it’s not her secret boyfriend!
I knew something was up. Something important was about to happen. There was clearly something more important than me going on because she did the dishes like I didn’t even exist. She just stopped listening…
So she walked over to the couch, sits down, turns the TV on and I realized. It’s freaking Bachelor season.
We’ve done this part a few times now. It’s the grand opening. It’s like a crazy hormonal circus for married chicks. The first episode is when all the skinny little cake face chickybabes roll up for first impressions. And she needs to remember every one of them to talk about tomorrow. She loves that stuff. It’s like watching an old punter pull his TAB racing form-guide out of the newspaper centerfold in a Saturday morning.
My wife can’t seem to google a local Home Depot to see if they have a bolt, but you bet your right freaking leg she can Instafollow, Snapchat, Facestalk, 24 random women; working with nothing more than a first name a grid reference of 200 square miles. She will tell me what school they slept with their teacher at before the next ad break.
And she’ll do it all with her phone pinging like a vegan, animal rights activist ex-emo chick at splendor in the grass. All her friends giving their opinions on every woman who walks up that fateful driveway. Y’all better have worn your best stuff cuz you about to become memes.
She then realizes I’m not buying into it. Like a Velociraptor whose original prey managed to escape; she sniffs the air. She begins to direct her ‘Batchie’ rage toward me. Like the devil pretending to be an angel, she changes her entire voice, literally patted the couch and said, ‘come and watch it with me,’ with a big grin on her face.
(I love this stuff)”
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