The drive to the anger management center was as uneventful as you’d expected, why you ask? Your husband—your grown-ass husband Tony—was sitting through another session because, well, he’d decided it was a good idea to shit on someone’s porch during an argument.

Apparently, the neighbor’s dog had been barking too loud for too long, and instead of filing a noise complaint like a normal person, he took a more “direct” approach. Now, he was sitting through eight weeks of court-mandated anger management.

A moment later, Tony came trudging out, looking about as contrite as a bull in a china shop. His usual swagger was tempered by the deep frown etched across his face. He had his arms crossed, and his brow furrowed as though the mere act of being here offended him.

“Hey hon,” Tony muttered, getting in the car then grunts out. “We goin’ home?”