I'm disappointed.
I found out that my wife was not, in fact, growing gills. She isn't a water breather. All those acts of sidling through the apartment, jaws wide open, were NOT indicative of impending basking sharkdom.
No, it's far worse.
I stumbled into the bathroom the other day in search of cotton swabs, noseplugs, and a jar of vaseline. My wife was sitting on the commode lid (we keep the lids closed when the commodes are not in use--my wife's peculiar odor attracts fearless swimming sewer rats) talking to her breast. She frequently talks to body parts, so I wasn't too worried. As I absentmindedly reached over my wife for the box of swabs perched behind her, I realized with horror that she wasn't the one talking. Well, she was talking, but the voice wasn't emanating from her larynx, but from under her left breast.
Right where she should have gills, she instead has a little face. A little squinty-eyed face with a perpetual flat grimace.
My hand fell to my side as I looked at my wife.
"HEY! Look at me when I'm talking to you!"
I don't look. Only an idiot would look. That voice sounds like a garbage truck compacting a speaker which is continually emitting the sound of fingers raking a chalkboard. My soul was bleeding out of my ears, I wasn't going to look.
My wife looks up at me, asks if I'll take a close look at the homunucula to see whether any bits of stitching material are sticking out. I gape at her. "Oh come on, don't be a sissy, " my wife starts to look exasperated.
Easy for the wife to say. She doesn't have to LOOK at her newest facade. She can't look at it, in fact. It's under globular cluster M.
I briefly consider reasoning with her. She knows I can't stand innards or wounds. And I certainly don't care for disasters as odious as this. She should make more of an effort to find doctors who don't read my short stories or watch Courage: The Cowardly Dog.
Then I hear it again, "What's the matter? You afraid of me? Yeah? I can kick your ass! aaaaaugh! Woman, you'll kill me! NO!"
I look at the wife. She's patiently holding her boob while blindly attempting to cleanse the wound with an alcohol-soaked cotton ball. I sense that she's given up on me and I flee the bathroom in search of my ever disappearing safe zone--the corner.
No, it's far worse.
I stumbled into the bathroom the other day in search of cotton swabs, noseplugs, and a jar of vaseline. My wife was sitting on the commode lid (we keep the lids closed when the commodes are not in use--my wife's peculiar odor attracts fearless swimming sewer rats) talking to her breast. She frequently talks to body parts, so I wasn't too worried. As I absentmindedly reached over my wife for the box of swabs perched behind her, I realized with horror that she wasn't the one talking. Well, she was talking, but the voice wasn't emanating from her larynx, but from under her left breast.
Right where she should have gills, she instead has a little face. A little squinty-eyed face with a perpetual flat grimace.
My hand fell to my side as I looked at my wife.
"HEY! Look at me when I'm talking to you!"
I don't look. Only an idiot would look. That voice sounds like a garbage truck compacting a speaker which is continually emitting the sound of fingers raking a chalkboard. My soul was bleeding out of my ears, I wasn't going to look.
My wife looks up at me, asks if I'll take a close look at the homunucula to see whether any bits of stitching material are sticking out. I gape at her. "Oh come on, don't be a sissy, " my wife starts to look exasperated.
Easy for the wife to say. She doesn't have to LOOK at her newest facade. She can't look at it, in fact. It's under globular cluster M.
I briefly consider reasoning with her. She knows I can't stand innards or wounds. And I certainly don't care for disasters as odious as this. She should make more of an effort to find doctors who don't read my short stories or watch Courage: The Cowardly Dog.
Then I hear it again, "What's the matter? You afraid of me? Yeah? I can kick your ass! aaaaaugh! Woman, you'll kill me! NO!"
I look at the wife. She's patiently holding her boob while blindly attempting to cleanse the wound with an alcohol-soaked cotton ball. I sense that she's given up on me and I flee the bathroom in search of my ever disappearing safe zone--the corner.