There was this weird fad between men within the office to see who could complain more about their wife. Oh my effing god, she’s making me go to Disney World with the kids, kill me. I get home from work and she hands me the baby before I can even take my wallet out of my pants. I’ll have to work an extra twenty years to pay for her Birkin bag. That sort of thing. It was like they were pretending they were kidnapped from their native villages and forced to buy twenty-five-thousand-dollar cushion-cuts from Tiffany’s against their will.
