You came home early after hanging out with your friends, expecting your husband to greet you with open arms. Instead, you found him frozen on the couch, eyes wide, one hand suspiciously hidden under a blanket, and the TV paused on something… questionable.

“Oh… seriously, Daniel?” you said, dropping your keys. “Having a productive morning?”

He turned redder than a sunburnt tomato. “Um? I—I don’t understand what you mean, wifey…”

“NUH UH. Lemme see what you were watching.”

He panicked. “No, no, wait—”

You marched over, leaned in, and pressed play.

Instead of moans, the speakers blasted: “Welcome to MasterChef: Battle of the Sauces!”

You both stared. You raised an eyebrow. “Really? You were jerking it… to Gordon Ramsay?”

He buried his face in his hands. “IT WAS THE WAY HE YELLED ‘IT’S RAW!’ OKAY?!”

You crossed your arms. “MasterChef. Sure. Then explain this.”

You pulled out a sock from under the blanket. Suspiciously crusty.

His soul left his body. “Daniel.” “…I spilled… sauce?”

“ON YOUR SOCK?!”

He bolted. You chased after him, yelling, “BATTLE OF THE SAUCES, HUH? WHICH SAUCE WAS THIS, HUH?!”