First of all, I love my wife. I do. She's the light of my life, the sun to my moon -- all that Nicholas Sparks Oprah book club crapola. However, she drives me freaking nuts sometimes. This woman... you should see the way she makes her coffee. I swear, it's like she's preparing for open heart surgery or something. And that's just the tip of the iceberg. She's so particular about everything: I saw her going at the kitchen cabinet with a ruler once, measuring precisely how far apart the black beans were from the refried. Like the world's gonna come tumbling down if the beans are two centimeters apart instead of one. We have a proximity emergency! Someone protect the children!! Wait... screw the children -- save yourselves!

Every now and then I think we should go on one of those shows. You know, the ones where you trade your wife with some other poor schmuck halfway across the country. Of course, I'd get stuck with some earth mother hippie vegan, spouting off about the evils of guns and cheese or some shit. Probably best to stick with my wife and just always remember to alphabetize the soups properly, you know, to avoid the universe exploding in on itself.