Honey, you have the brains of your mother. It’s not the first time it happened.
You know you’re not allowed to touch my Fropis. They are mine. They are my personal property. They are my contingency plan. I have the Tombstone’s the Red Barons, The Digiornos, The Celestes, and they are all mine and mine alone
“But I was hungry and didn’t feel like cooking” is not a valid excuse to invade my personal property.
What’s worse my dear little empty-headed Italian Princess is that you didn’t bother to read the directions when you deliberately stole my Fropi.
You have to take it off the cardboard!
I can’t beleive you left it on the cardboard… Again!
Yes, you heard me. Again!
What was that my little coconut cannoli, mother of my child… what was that, you said?
Ohhhhhh! You forgot?
Ohhhh, and it doesn’t seem normal to put a fropi on a piece of cardboard without cooking it?
What the well would you know about normal for Fropis?
You are completely unqualified on Fropis. That is why for the protection of you, me, my Fropis, and the rest of humanity, you need to step back from the freezer, and leave them alone.
In fact stay out of the kitchen altogether, because you can’t cook. Your’re not a cook. You have no heart or soul for it. All you do is heat food, you don’t cook it.
I didn’t marry you for your cooking and I don’t want you to murder my fropis. I am the cook.
I bring home the bacon and I fry it up in a pan. All you have to do is clean the house, and tell the dry cleaners not to starch my shirts. Oh, and you have to buy Diet Coke. We must always have Diet Coke. No Diet Pepsi. Diet Coke.
And even though you don’t cook you have to do all the food shopping. I tell you what to buy, you buy it.
And feed the dog, and take care of our daughter during the day, and send out the Christmas cards, and arrange our social life, and get things fixed.
Never mind, disregard that.
You do everything except have a career, cook, mow the lawn, and fix things. That includes everything except The FROPIS
It’s a fair division of labor, but you will stay away from the Fropis.
I am a kind and tolerant and perfect husband in every way. I am generous. I am good.
You will listen to me about my Fropis. They are mine. They are my contingency plan. It makes me feel good to have my fropis. I buy them myself. I put them in the freezer. They are there when I need them.
They are not your discretionary fropis. They are my fropis.
You know this. You disregarded the prime directive and now there is this soggy doughy dead fropi rotting on its cardboard. Useless and inedible. It has merged with the fropi.
Look upon whay ye have wrought, women!
That’s the problem with you women in general. Always messing with their man’s fropis.
You killed it. They were like 2 for $6 and now it’s dead. Because of you.
Once I can understand. You break the prime directive and the fropi dies on it’s carboard.
This however is the second time that you have disregarded your marriage vows wherein you swore to obey me, and the second time you left the flurshluginer thing on the cardboard.
If I can’t trust you in this, how I can I trust you in anything?
Like I said, the brains of your mother, and the integrity of your father.
This is what happens when you mix Italians and Germans together. You are the hellspawn of that unholy mix, you Fropi retard!
Well. I’ve had enough. I’m not taking it any more.
Once you read this, I bet that’ll change you. That’ll show you.
Of course, I am never going to show it to you, but that’s beside the point. It’s here. There’s a record. There’s a ledger. Your crimes are catalogued!
It’s not like I’m not putting my foot down and confronting you. I am. I’m just using a proxy, albeit one you will be permanently oblivious to, yet a proxy nonetheless.
You probably think that I’m afraid to yell at you, or tell you any of this, but that’s not true.
I am asserting my manhood in alternate fashion. That’s all.