A WOMAN’S POEM:
He didn’t like the casserole, and he didn’t like my cake. He said my biscuits were too hard, not like his mother used to make.
I didn’t make the coffee right, he didn’t like my stew.
I didn’t fold his pants, the way his mother used to fold his pants, the way his mother used to do.
I pondered for an answer, I was looking for a clue.
Then I turned around and smacked the shit out of him, like his mother used to do.
A husband and wife are sitting quietly in bed, when the wife looks over at him and asks a bold question.
WIFE: “What would you do if I died? Would you get married again?”
HUSBAND: “Definitely not!”
WIFE: “Why not – don’t you like being married?”
HUSBAND: “Of course I do.”
WIFE: “Then why wouldn’t you remarry?”
HUSBAND: “Okay, I’d get married again.”
WIFE: “You would?” (with a hurtful look on her face).
HUSBAND: (makes audible groan).
WIFE: “Would you live in our house?”
HUSBAND: “Sure, it’s a great house.”
WIFE: “Would you sleep with her in our bed?”
HUSBAND: “Where else would we sleep?”
WIFE: “Would you let her drive my car?”
HUSBAND: “Probably, it is almost new.”
WIFE: “Would you replace my pictures with hers?”
HUSBAND: “That would seem like the proper thing to do.”
WIFE: “Would she use my golf clubs?”
