"Ok." "Raw, raw as raw." "Raw?" "Did you

"Ok." "Raw, raw as raw." "Raw?" "Did you see my lips move? And hear sound come out of my face?" "Yeah." "I said raw!" "Ok, but dude, why are you so pissed?" "We ate it!" "So?"

"It was raw, raw as raw." "Why do you care?" "I might die. Don't you love me?" "Does my face look like it loves you?" "Yes." "Your face is lying." "Anybody want raw, raw, raw, raw

changed." He stared at her. It was always the same thing. She wanted him, but wanted him to be different...and if he didn't change, she'd nag him literally to death. "Nooo, no you

keep filling my man cave with cement and I'll stuff myself into your "perfect guy" cookie cutter. Cut me up, buttercup." This was the result she'd hoped for. Abort nag, abort nag!

He wore a manskirt with a teal and Mountbatten cabbage rose print and argyle tights to work to please her. His banking colleagues nodded understandingly. They'd met his wife.

He did it because he admired his wife, because she was his fashion icon and only by appealing to her tastes could he be happy. However, the crocs were a bit much. Not only did they

offend every atom of good taste in his being, he could only move in a shuffling gait as if he were bound & shackled & boarding a slaver on its way to the New World. His lime crocs

and matching bow tie were all he wore. The quaaludes were kicking in and the snowy white 18-year-old model slumped motionless on the floor. Bill grinned, drooling like a baby,

and all was had a merry old time on the very first annual holiday celebration of Crackmas.