Shhhhh. . . .

I am eavesdropping. The Fuckwits are having a screaming fight. Not surprising. Never can make it through an entire long holiday weekend together. And that baby never cries unless his father is home. Poor little thing is bawling now.

To Meg: I will answer the burning question that you are intent on repeating at the top of your lungs, "Don't you get it? Why can't you get it? When I have explained it to you a million times?!". Your husband does not get whatever it is, because he is a self-absorbed prick. As you must have noticed by now, he is also not the sharpest pencil in the box. And even if he does get it, as the thorough-going misogynist that he is, he is never going to show you the respect of "getting it," which I suspect has something perfectly valid to do with your needs. Little dude has a problem with women. Notice how when he's hanging out with his buddies, having a beer in the backyard, all he talks about is how dumb various women at work and celebrity women are? Notice his paternalistic and condescending attitude toward me? Issues, Meg, issues. You are a smart woman, so you must have known you were not marrying the brightest bulb in the chandelier. I am not usually the type to point out how that bed is one that you made, but . . .

To Hamilton: Just leave, you little troll. Your wife is upset and your baby is screaming. The phallus is always already imperiled. Deal with it. Go to Home Depot or the sports bar or something. The stripper-professor upstairs woke up on the man-hating harridan side of the bed today and is ready to eat you alive. Consider yourself forewarned.