Back to the grind.

So, Easter is over, so now back to the mildly (shut up) acidic and rude posts that I usually enjoy. First, my hubby is a total snot. Here's why. He goes to the store. He buys peeps. My favorite, peeps. The sugar. The marshmallow. The sugary marshmallow goodness that are peeps. We stash them on the shelf and I assume that they (meaning me, meaning we, meaning both he and I) are waiting for Easter to arrive. I restrain myself at great personal cost. Easter arrives. I happily skip to the pantry to liberate those peeps and guess what?

They're gone.

Freakin' gone, man. Why are they gone? I'll tell you why. 'Cause the rat bastard jackass ate the ENTIRE package of peeps. By his-freakin'-self. Without consulting me. He ate all the peeps.

If you aren't totally appalled and horrified at this point you can't possibly understand what I've said thus far. I will repeat for clarity's sake.

HE ATE ALL THE FREAKIN' PEEPS IN THE HOUSE WITHOUT ME!!!!!!

I could just, well, I probably shouldn't say it on what is essentially a public forum. All I can say is that if I gave in to my baser impulses right now he wouldn't be able to empty his (admittedly pea-sized) bladder come sunrise.

I remember those peeps so fondly. They were purple chicks. Sparkling, plump, fragrant, purple chicks. I'm not usually into chicks but the pleasures that these chicks promised were so darkly sinful, so mouth-wateringly tantalizing that I was more than willing to engage in a short relationship.

So short, in fact, that it would barely span snacktime.

Did I have that opportunity? No. It was snatched wrongfully from my grasp. It was pilfered in secret. It was shoveled down the gullet of a sneaky, gluttonous, parasitic, pasty, spare-tire growing, peep-thieving, pumpkin driving, sci-fi watching, grape-juice drinking, burglarizing, stinky, poop-headed nimrod.

I just can't say enough. And really, you guys are getting the sanitized version. The original wasn't PG-13.

Plus, I haven't wiped a booger in any of your hair whilst you were sleeping, so "sanitized" really is the proper term.

But that's beside the point.

I just can't believe he could do this to me. ME!!! His wife! The one he promised to love and cherish!! I seem to recall a phrase during the ceremony, how did it go? Something like, all my wordly goods I relinquish or get my peep-stealing ass kicked by my livid wife. Yeah, that's it.
Someone obviously wasn't paying attention.

I did eventually calm down (I did too, so stuff it) and very nicely suggested that he might avoid a brutal divorce with a punishing settlement and alimony by running his butt to the store in that orange turd he calls a car and getting more peeps. What does he do? He toodles to the nearest store and comes right back to inform me nonchalantly that they are all out. All out. It's like he has a deathwish. It's like he doesn't understand that this is important.

Oh, sure laugh it up. You don't know what it's like to love. You have never felt the pain of denying yourself all the tasty delights of the Easter season that are sooooo well advertised in order to indulge, guilt-free, in the one, the only reward that you want (or are obsessed with in my case) at the end of the self-deprivation tunnel only to find that the overly-pale lump of stupid that you married in a freak episode of a previously unknown personality disorder that has conveniently surfaced just often enough to make you think that he was cute enough (barf) to keep around has stuffed them down his gullet like they were as insignificant as those foul Dorrito's that he washes down with chocolate milk, of all disgusting things. You don't know the eye-rolling dismay induced by said LOS (lump-of-stupid) when he has the overly-dramatic reaction of shock and dismay (Yes, yes and pain, for crying out loud. Happy now?!?!) upon discovering that laying one stubby finger on your person after bedtime results in the unfortunate, near-uncontrollable (shuddap) reflex that sends your elbow into his throat at a high rate of speed.

Blah, blah, my sympathy runneth over. Whatever.

Let this be a glossed-over, cleaned-up, miraculously-edited-to-remove-any-content-not-PG lesson for your male children.

On that note, I'm off to the store. My plan? To either buy every last peep in this town or hit my darling hubby's credit limit, whichever comes first.