goes to... [drum roll] ...the Angry Baker! [Audience applauds wildly, closeup shot of Pamela Anderson wiping away tears] Because, while Angry Professor was running around the city getting her butt fixed [with a Butt Machine! yells the Angry Kid], and chasing down prescriptions for mega-steroid butt creams at two different pharmacies, the Angry Baker made dinner, met with a contractor, took the Angry Kid out for ice cream and... [another drum roll]
...cleaned two (count 'em) two dead, maggoty raccoons from behind a sealed basement window.
I am never going to be able to forget this one. Every time he wants me to do something, from now until the day one of us dies, all he will have to say is, "Remember the raccoons?" and I will have to do whatever he says.
Monday, April 30, 2007
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
9 comments:
Wow--that's impressive. The raccoons really make it unbeatable. The angry baker should be a model for men everywhere!
I want one. Where can I find my own Angry Baker? Do they have regular meetings where I can bag my own, or is more of a guerilla-style undertaking?
You don't want one!
What AP won't disclose is AB is genuinely angry (often), a basket case of neuroses, will likely die early from accumulated stress and is more trouble than he's worth. She deserves better.
But, yeah, I had a maggot crawl right on me and went up and fed the kid and even ate a bit last night (after washing my hands about 10 times). I guess I'm kind of proud of that. Flipping dead animals out the door and serving up dinner within minutes.
I have to ask -- now that your butt is on steroids (legally prescribed, of course!), can we expect that it will announce its candidacy for governor of CA soon?
Well, politics are probably out. But Angry Hemorrhoid has a bit part in Hostel II.
Anonymous #2, please sign your name to your comments.
Just so all my readers know, the Angry Baker has a Ph.D. and a great, well-paying job; he does all the cooking and cleaning, including laundry; he is a fabulous father; he manages all our finances; he gave up a high-power, high-paying career in the pharmaceutical industry so that I could pursue tenure in academia; he bakes all our bread, brews our beer, and makes our soap; and he is fan-fucking-tastic in bed.
No, you can't have him. He's mine.
Actually, I haven't brewed in a while. But the rest is true.
--AB, thanks my love
This may be the goofiest love letter I've read in awhile...not many involve beer, hemorrhoids, maggots, or comments from the peanut gallery. But still, it works on you two.
And I still want one. Keep your eyes peeled.
Is it true larvae or true love?
Only the fly on the wall knows for sure.
Post a Comment