By Mike Johnson
Ahh, the three stages of a man’s life: A&W. BMW. VFW.
I’m so old that my Realtor was Century19.
I’m addicted to tomato juice and vodka because I’m bloody married.
I’m serving the 45th year of a wife sentence.
The longer you’re married, the more your dominance goes doormat.
I say to mate her, she says to morrow.
She had me at “Hell no.”
On the day we met, I followed her home only to realize what she actually said was, “comb over.”
I wanted intimacy, but alas, she wanted into Macys.
I’m six feet tall. Which, according to my wife, is the height of arrogance.
When I need peace, I feed her easter candy. I don’t get a Peep out of her all day.
She offers to make toast while I’m in the hot tub.
She’s a vegetarian, so for her birthday, I bought her 24 carrots.
She also loves pie, so I sent her flours.
The next day, I was late to breakfast so she changed the lox.
I accidently slept with a dolphin but she said I did it on porpoise.
To stop spawning these one-liners, she put me on mirth-control pills.
If you toss your wife into the dryer with two socks, only one comes out, but it’s worn by a lawyer.
To get even, she cooks me her best French dish: Salmon Nella.
Tired of bickering, I give her a dozen roses. She reciprocates with TwoLips.
I tell her I love her. Then I cram her into the blender. Now she’s all mixed up.
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