Bees don't use toothpaste
Bees don't use toothpaste
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I love my idiot, hog-like wife

I appreciate my wife for who she is - a disgusting creature too dumb to comprehend even a few of these words. This world is full of impossible standards set forth by the masses: be skinny, have gigantic quivering cubes of gravy for breasts, own teeth that you can take out and throw at people so the teeth can crawl inside the mouths of your enemies, breed, and take over their mouths, have a nice job that fills your money pot with money, own a Volkswagen that was hand-carved by Adolf Hitler. Who can live up to that? Not my abomination of a wife, that’s for sure. And I am ok with that.

I support my hideous monster wife in everything she does. I must, because the sheer mass of her nightmare frame is enough to crack the crust of the earth. I have spent countless hours admiring the curves of what many would call “her body.” Huge hills of flesh that blot out the sun that must be tamped back with polymer straps or they would spill out over nearby towns and cities, smothering the normal, beautiful humans who dwell there. I appreciate the disgusting calamity of life that is the creature I call “wife.” That’s why I built her a network of powerful cranes to lift her off the ground and distribute her vast, unthinkable weight across the surface of the earth.

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We focus so much on one standard of beauty in the world that we often overlook what’s inside people - their wonderful capacity to think and to love. My foul excuse for a wife has none of those things. There is no light behind her dull eyes, no true thought outside an animal urge to consume salted snacks and a slurry of beef meat and fructose corn syrup I call The Sludge. She is as unthinking as she is disgusting to behold. When the sun sets behind her and the valley grows dark with her foul-smelling shadow, I often try to communicate with her; simple things like “why do you haunt me so?” and “have I sinned against God to carry such a fantastic burden as you?” and “tell me how to end your wretched life and I will give you the sweet release of death.” But all I get in return are gentle lowing moans and, more often than not, absurdly long and melancholy farts that pass through the cavern of her anus and rush down onto the plains, bending the crops at odd angles and laying low buildings not meant to withstand such a hellish force.

My wife is a disgusting animal, and a plague on the human race. As far as I can tell, she is immortal, and I am chained mercilessly to her fate. But I appreciate her, and I think the world can learn something from that.

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