EPTI set down the pickle jar, still unopened. It stared at me, snickering. The pickleman plastered on the jar was taunting me.
"It's ok honey, it's just a pickle jar."
Just a pickle jar. Those words echoed within me. The lump in my throat told me I was close to tears. I quickly exited the room in shame before she saw my manliness falter any more than it already has.
"How much of a man can I be..." I thought, "if I can't even open a damn jar of pickles for the love of my life?" I choked on these thoughts.
"Come back honey! It's alright, I got it open."
I rushed back in the room and saw it. The pickleman gazed into my soul. My wife was reaching in, touching HIS PICKLES!!! I don't remember much of what happened next. My wife tells me that in a fit of rage I grabbed the jar, smashed it with my bare hands and roared "Who's laughing now!?!"
'Showed him.
.
