My wife's parents sat at the dinner table.

My wife's parents sat at the dinner table. They judge everything I do. The green beans were tepid, the butter cold, but they liked the meatloaf. I said, "You should it's your daugh

... " then nothing; the power of speech left me. I was struck permanently dumb on the spot. Needless to say, my inlaws enjoyed my company much more from that day on, but my wife

could hardly stand me. We were never what you would call close. Rather, we were business partners who happened to share the same room. Yes, I loved her, but she

spurned my advances. The romantic gestures, the flowers, dioramas of bedrooms with little models of her sleeping in the beds, never quite had the effect I'd hoped for. Regardless

of the massive

blackhole that was pulling large sections of the den. The lazy-boy imploded in a spastic sucking flash. His collection of beer cans orbited in cosmic rush. "Cleaning," he thought,

"is made so very much easier with a black hole generating particle collider, although it's rather indiscriminate in sucking up everything and not just dirt and trash." His den was

choosing to write on the whiteboard using ox blood. "What an awful idea that was!", thought Petruccio to himself. "I guess this means I should never

consume food from McDonalds again." As it turns out Maccers was closed later that year due to a powerful hallucinogen found in Big Mac's. The end