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.