Attack of the Cheesewoman

My wife Staci made me go to a wedding last weekend.

Staci makes me go to everything.

If it weren’t for her, I’d be happy.  Like Howard Hughes, I’d be high on morphine rocking back and forth in the closet of a Las Vegas hotel room, but I’d be happy.

My resentment is what makes me buy her birthday cakes shaped like Menorahs with “to Stan” written across the top.

Then a family wedding rolls around, and she gets her vengeance.  She makes me attend.

The weddings themselves are survivable.  Survivable beca