The wife and I have been together for nearly 40 years — she has been threatening my life for a full 4 decades. I never took her fake plans seriously until this Easter.

It had nothing to do with Jesus rolling a stone. It was about hamburgers.

I’m not exactly sure how it happened, but these god damn Savages keep making more Savages. The old refuse to die. We were expecting four 90-plus-year-olds including my dad’s girlfriend who just joined the 90 club.

We were up to 42 Savages and their ilk.

The wife decided 2024 was the year of the Easter grill. Fuck those eggs and ham, hot dogs and burgers for everyone. Food for 4 score and a few babies.

Unlike past Savage meals, Helios took a break from the burning hell of Kieran cooking in central Arizona. Cool, cloudy with just the right drizzle to keep the sizzle from giving me heat stroke.

I traded in my two stolen sweat towels for paper ones to soak up the small bits of water beading on the plates.

The Savages poured through the door. I kept Carol Baskins at bay — holding my chiweenie in air jail to keep the barking to an annoying whine.

I grabbed my wine and headed for the solitude of my grill. A man’s place is in front of the fire. Tongs, spatulas and platters of raw beef. Burning gas bringing the temp to over 450 degrees. My cell phone timer binging every 4 and a half minutes as a reminder to flip. Flames throwing out the side. Smoke rising.

Then a fucked up parade of Savages stopped by to say “hi “stepping under my umbrella, pushing me toward the drizzle and into the smoke.

My eyes started to burn. I stepped back only to bump into unhelpful humans. Even the dogs were smart enough to not get underfoot.

Sure, sure they apologized (and I apologized because my true self is still being stymied from growing up in the Midwest) but they didn’t fucking move.

“Bing.. Bing.. Bing” the first round was done

Fuck. We forgot the cheese. Sent one of the useless onlookers into the kitchen to fetch the cheddar. He returned with a platter of cheese slivers stuck to wet paper. No fingernails. No way to peel the cheese quickly. Turn down the heat. Too late. The flames and smoke feeding themselves on the dripping fat.

One Savage found a way to make himself useful — peeling cheese and making floppy squares on a platter.

Just as I turned to face the flames and smoke again, cheddar in hand, the wife muscled in.

We weren’t grilling in the driveway, but this is as close as I could get to capturing the scene with AI.

“You are burning those burgers. You need to get them off now.”

Rage spilled over the top of my head and flowed down into my face and jaw. My jugular veins jumped out of my neck. I took a breath to calm down and speak reason to the gathered Savages.

Then she reached for the spatula…

Forget the Midwest.

“You gotta go.”

She leaned in to further inspect and brought up an elbow to move me aside.

“You gotta get THE FUCK out of here.”

I was no longer thinking about grilling. I looked for a knife. Nothing but tongs. I pictured myself shoving her head into the flames and trying to close down the lid, like I was shoving a hairy roast into a George Foreman grill. Just as I was imagining fitting my hands around her neck, a couple of previously useless Savages stepped in.

“He’s doing fine.” They patted her back and steered her back into the house the way you walk a jumper off a bridge.

Took a swig of wine. Sent a Savage for more.

As I pulled burger after burger off the heat, it dawned on me.

After 40 years together, I finally know how she feels…

PS

After publishing this bullshit, I checked the website to make sure it was the right version. At the bottom what do I see? The same story from 2023. Apparently I had put away the memory of the hot conspiracy.

But it explains why I angered so quickly. Another year, another 40 burgers and another last minute kibitz over stuck cheese from the soon to be (possibly) late wife.