Chin Diesel
Power of Love
- Joined
- Aug 24, 2011
- Messages
- 32,696
- Reaction Score
- 99,616
So, the Mrs's decided to host a "bag" party tonight.
Somehow or another a sales associate shows up on my doorstep with a bunch of purses, bags, totes, etc and then next thing I know there's a dozen wives cackling and it's time for me and the kids to depart for a few hours.
Normal crap, they bitch and moan about everything for two hours and then fill out a bunch of order forms to buy crap that none of them need. At the end of the night Mrs. Chin ends up with a voucher to buy crap we don't need and there's a bunch of empty wine glasses, half-eaten red pepper hummus dip bowls and a bunch of paper plates smothered in ranch dressing and carrot sticks.
Night is almost over and we're down to the last two wives- the one's who are gonna crash here and whose kids are crashed out on the fouton of the spare room.
So the kitchen is now captive of two bitter women who are throwing f-bombs, conjugating s-h-i-t and the throwing the dreaded "divorce" word about twenty times a minute. Think of the scene from Goodfellas. No, not the one where Tommy gets whacked. The scene where all the wives are putting on bad make up and bitching about their husbands.
I've pretty much avoided the mess by watching you tube videos of lighting fixtures smashing high school wrestlers in South Dakota, cancer stricken dogs getting turkey and bacon for last meals, empirally evaluating Andre Drummond's rookie season stats and drinking as many beers as possible without being noticed.
I made a fatal mistake of finding a trash bag filled in the kitchen and taking it out to the trash and removing my sleeping son from my bed and carrying him to his bed. Those two acts probably enriched at least one divorce lawyer by $10K.
I'm being talked about 15 feet away as if I don't exist and I really don't care.
Pretty much I'm hoping for five hours sleep before my daughter wakes up too sick for her basketball game and then I'm high-tailing it to Mobile, Alabama for the Senior Bowl.
Can we please have a game to talk about.
Somehow or another a sales associate shows up on my doorstep with a bunch of purses, bags, totes, etc and then next thing I know there's a dozen wives cackling and it's time for me and the kids to depart for a few hours.
Normal crap, they bitch and moan about everything for two hours and then fill out a bunch of order forms to buy crap that none of them need. At the end of the night Mrs. Chin ends up with a voucher to buy crap we don't need and there's a bunch of empty wine glasses, half-eaten red pepper hummus dip bowls and a bunch of paper plates smothered in ranch dressing and carrot sticks.
Night is almost over and we're down to the last two wives- the one's who are gonna crash here and whose kids are crashed out on the fouton of the spare room.
So the kitchen is now captive of two bitter women who are throwing f-bombs, conjugating s-h-i-t and the throwing the dreaded "divorce" word about twenty times a minute. Think of the scene from Goodfellas. No, not the one where Tommy gets whacked. The scene where all the wives are putting on bad make up and bitching about their husbands.
I've pretty much avoided the mess by watching you tube videos of lighting fixtures smashing high school wrestlers in South Dakota, cancer stricken dogs getting turkey and bacon for last meals, empirally evaluating Andre Drummond's rookie season stats and drinking as many beers as possible without being noticed.
I made a fatal mistake of finding a trash bag filled in the kitchen and taking it out to the trash and removing my sleeping son from my bed and carrying him to his bed. Those two acts probably enriched at least one divorce lawyer by $10K.
I'm being talked about 15 feet away as if I don't exist and I really don't care.
Pretty much I'm hoping for five hours sleep before my daughter wakes up too sick for her basketball game and then I'm high-tailing it to Mobile, Alabama for the Senior Bowl.
Can we please have a game to talk about.
