Barnaby Buttercup, a man whose mustache rivaled a squirrel’s winter stash, stared forlornly at his TV. Static crackled, a blizzard of snow replacing his favorite nature documentary about aggressively cheerful meerkats. “Blast and botheration!” he exclaimed, his mustache trembling with frustration. “The antenna’s gone kaput!”
His wife, Beatrice, a woman whose smile could melt glaciers (and whose glare could freeze them solid again), entered the room, holding a half-eaten lemon meringue pie. “What’s all the fuss, Barnaby?” she asked, a crumb clinging precariously to her cheek.
“The television, my dear! It’s showing nothing but the ghostly visage of static! I fear I’ll miss the crucial meerkat mating rituals!”
Beatrice eyed the pie. “Hmmm,” she mused, “that does sound…problematic. But before we tackle that… did you remember to…” She trailed off, her eyes narrowing.
Barnaby, completely engrossed in his television woes, shook his head. “Remember what, my love?”
Beatrice took a dramatic breath. “Did you remember to take the trash out?”
Barnaby’s eyes widened. He had, indeed, forgotten. Again. The sheer terror of Beatrice’s wrath was palpable. The antenna, with its static-filled misery, suddenly seemed a far lesser problem.
“Oh, dear,” Barnaby stammered, “I… I completely forgot!” He looked longingly at the TV, then at his wife, then back at the TV, his internal debate clearly visible in his twitching mustache.
“Antenna repair?” Beatrice said sweetly, a glint in her eye. “Nah, wife first!” she finished with a mischievous grin, taking a large bite of her pie. Barnaby knew, with a sinking feeling, that fixing the antenna would have to wait until after he endured a very thorough, and very pie-related, lecture.
