Things my girlfried and I argue about

po0k

http://homepage.ntlworld.com/mil.millington/

I found this good while back.
There's a link to it there.
it's a definate candidate for the "safe and read later" treatment.
Huge, but you'll píss yourself laughing

Mutz

Margret doesn't like to watch films on the TV. No, hold on - let me make sure you've got the inflection here: Margret doesn't like to watch films on the TV. She says she does, but years of bitter experience have proven that what she actually wants is to sit by me while I narrate the entire bleeding film to her. "Who's she?", "Why did he get shot?", "I thought that one was on their side?", "Is that a bomb" - "JUST WATCH IT! IN THE NAME OF GOD, JUST WATCH IT"! The hellish mirror-image of this is when she furnishes me, deaf to my pleading, with her commentary. Chair-clawing suspense being assaulted mercilessly from behind by such interjections as "Hey! Look! They're the cushions we've got.", "Isn't she the one who does that tampon advert?" and, on one famous occasion, "Oh, I've seen this - he gets killed at the end

Yes.. Oh Yes.. with the nail being hit on the head etc...

Pugsley

That was up about a year ago
Bloody funny tho,in my boredom i read it all way back then, their kid got some funyn arguements on, and the tooth brushing infront of the mirror was so stupid its hilarious

po0k

yeah, that may actually have been where I got it from.
Anywyas, I'd presume it's been updated a bit now.
It's only reading it again now that I can appreciate it anew.
This really is true "hammer and nail" stuff.

Margret flooded the kitchen last week. Turned the taps on, put the plug in the sink, and utterly forgot about it (because she'd come upstairs and we'd got involved in an unrelated argument). She goes back downstairs, opens the door and - whoosh - it's Sea World. The interesting thing about this is, if I'd flooded the kitchen, it would have been a roaring "You've flooded the kitchen, you idiot!" and then she'd have done that thing where I curl up in a ball, trying to protect my head, and she kicks me repeatedly in the kidneys. As it was, however, there's a shout, I run downstairs and stand for a beat in the doorway - taking in the scene, waves lapping gently at my ankles - and she turns round and roars, "Well, help me then - can't you see I've flooded the kitchen, you idiot."

You really feel for the poor basterd

po0k

I know from the emails I get that a fair number of you are holed up in Wyoming basements surrounded by automatic weapons, livestock and racks of cassettes filled with analysis of the Book of Revelations you've recorded off talk radio. If you have a moment, go and look in your freezer. That's how Margret stocks our freezer too. She doesn't buy one of anything. She waits until she finds it 'Buy Two - Get One Free' and then she buys nine. Moreover, she can't manage to suppress an indulgent smile - as though I'm a father telling my teenage daughter that her skirt might give boys all the wrong signals - when I suggest that checking to see how full the freezer is before she starts buying extra stuff for it might be a good idea. Beyond the simply obvious - they'll have terraformed Mars before our family runs out of oven chips, for example - there is another consequence of this. The sheer volume of food that needs to be crammed into the freezer means it's only possible at all because Margret employs two ruses.
The first is brute force. Basically, she just hammers things into the drawers with the heel of her shoe. Which works, but at the expense of horrifically deforming whatever she's storing. We're all used to this now, naturally. Jonathan pretty much expects his turkey dinosaurs to be a collection of misshapen body parts; they're turkey dinosaurs, as modelled on the scenes of carnage the day after the comet hit Earth. It really only becomes an issue when he has friends round, asks them if they'd like an Cornetto ice cream and is then bemused by their look of stark horror when he returns holding something that looks like it's been trampled by horses.
The second point is that she only has any chance whatsoever of jamming all the things in if she throws away the cardboard boxes in which everything's packed. The boxes which, of course, bear the cooking instructions. Now, I know you're not going to believe this, but I'm just the tiniest bit anal. No, no, really - it's true. Anyway, one of the symptoms of this - very slight - finickiness on my part is that if the instructions say 'Pre-heat the oven. Cook at Gas Mark 7 for 23 minutes. Turn once at 13 minutes.' That, precisely that, is what I do. And I become rather agitated if anything prevents this. (A regular argument we have springs from my setting the oven timer for, say, 7 minutes then going into the living room and pacing backwards and forwards, additionally checking my watch, while I wait. At about 9 minutes, and still not having heard the beeper go off, my crackling nerves will take me into the kitchen, where I'll find Margret has reset the timer to 45 minutes because she's using it to time some glue drying or something. A discussion will follow.) Not having any cooking instructions leaves me in a fearful swirl of uncertainty. Even worse is when Margret decides the cooking instructions are vital, so she'll cut them out, and throw them into the freezer as she's loading it. I'll find them some years later. There's no clue as to what they belong to, of course. I'm merely left there with my shaking hands holding a slip of cardboard that has instructions ending with - in bold - 'Leave to stand for two minutes before serving', and not the smallest idea what it's referring to. I'd be happier, quite frankly, if it read 'There is a bomb somewhere in your house'.
So anyway, I came downstairs at lunchtime on Saturday and saw that the oven was on. Margret, in a worrying development, was cooking something.
'What's in there?' I ask, as off-handedly as the situation allows.
'Your pizza.'
I make a lunge for the oven door. Margret becomes bellicose.
'I can cook a frozen pizza, you know?'
'No, it's not that.' I bluff, 'I just want to add some extra ham. They never use enough ham.' Margret taking on a frozen pizza is a chilling enough prospect under any circumstances, but when you remember she's flying blind here - no cardboard box bearing cooking instructions to light the way - well, I'm sure you can imagine my terror. I take the pizza from the oven. I add extra ham. I return the pizza to the oven.
On a whim, I amend Margret's arrangement by removing the polystyrene base from under the pizza before continuing to cook it.