The Dumbest Divorce in the History of Stabbings

Once again, for the record: I love my husband.

But we’ve now embarked on a journey which has taken us to a very important crossroads, one which can not only change the entire structure of our household, but that could actually have global implications.

I’m gonna kill him if he doesn’t stop telling people we never landed on the Moon.

Dude, it’s 2013. The days of old fogeys who swore up and down that the image of the Moon landing on their 1940s-era black and white television was too grainy to be believed are OVER. Even the conspiracy theorists have found bigger fish to fry, thanks to 9/11 and the Magic Bullet theory. We didn’t fake that shit in the New Mexico desert, it was real. It was so really real, in fact, that you’ve been to the Smithsonian (with me, at my insistence, I must add) and actually touched a moon rock and climbed in the little capsule thingy that made the trip.

Stop telling people you don’t believe it happened…you’re making us all look like douches.

If your goal was simply to embarrass our teenagers, I’m all for it. But just put on a tank top and some skinny jeans and drive them to the mall like a normal dad. Stop arguing with people in line at the hardware store or the bank about how you can see a boom mic in the imagery if you squint your eyes and look really close.

This would actually be divorce-worthy, but there’s no way I’m standing in front of a judge and letting your caffeine-fueled ranty testimony become part of the public record. And while I do not want you to actually be dead, I’m all for stabbing you in the legs until you agree to stop believing this crap and sharing it with others.


Stabby Love is NOT a Good Basis for a Relationship

Look! This knife matches my outfit and the blood stains won't show on the blade!

I love everybody. Doesn’t matter who they are, what they are, or what kind of pantyhose they like to slip on for an evening of surfing the internet from the darkened privacy of their homes. There are very few people that I even don’t care for, let alone hate. I sleep well at night.

So if I ever have this uncanny urge to stab you until you resemble a sea sponge, you know you’ve done something wrong on the galactic level. The person who took my dog is on the sponge list and so is the teacher who yelled at my daughter. If I ever get to meet any real-life pedophiles in a spot without any surveillance cameras, they are in actual danger of being stabbed with whatever I find handy, and hopefully it’s really dull and rusty and contaminated with small pox.

I don’t think I’m mean enough to actually enjoy stabbing someone and the sound of pulling off a chicken leg really creeps me out so I’d be willing to bet that I couldn’t pull off a full-scale lethal poke of someone. I’m sure I’d be more of a potentially severe scraper, kind of close-shaving my victims. Maybe break the skin a little and hope that a nasty infection set in. It’s fun to think about, though, especially with eerie horror-move sound effects playing in the background. Maybe someone else can make the squish-squish-squish noise and I’ll just do the stabby motions like on Psycho. Either way, don’t piss me off unless you want to endure a really intense razor burn.