Evening. A crowded restaurant. A man and woman sit at a table. The man stands. He hits a fork against his wine glass. Everyone in the restaurant turns to look at the man.

Man: Clink, clink, clink. Can I have everyone’s attention? Yes? Thank you! I just want all of you to know that my wife – that woman sitting there – believes I smell like a homeless man. She told me so herself a moment ago.

Woman: Your clothing! I said “you,” at first, but then changed my idea to, “your clothing smells like a homeless man’s.”

Man: You all are probably wondering why I have stood up and begun announcing this to you all, but I am just overjoyed to finally solve a perplexing mystery. My wife – that woman sitting there – has a look of disgust on her face every time she walks into a room in which I have made myself comfortable. By comfortable, I just mean, come home from work, put on my favorite sweater, sit in my chair, and MIND MY OWN BUSINESS, which means reading. That’s what I do, okay? And I have always found it curious why my wife – that woman sitting just there; do you see her? – has this look of disgust on her face everyday when she enters the old homestead. I mean everyday. Disgust is a curious thing, by the way. Apparently, the higher one’s intelligence, the lower the disgust threshold. And, there is a well documented correlation between Fascism and disgust. Meaning: show me someone who bathes five times a day, and I will show you a Hitler.

The man pauses to sip his wine but, in his absentminded wroth, he clenches the glass so tightly that the glass shatters.

Man: Just look at her there – my wife – sitting there eating her dinner. Would you believe that she doesn’t even have a job? She eats my food, lives in my house, and is just disgusted. Disgusted with the whole situation.

Woman: I do the laundry.

Man: Oh, do you? Do you?

The end.