Yeah . . . Yeah . . . Yeah. . . I know. Your baby’s got sauce. But your baby ain’t SUH-WEET like mine.
You’re incredulous. I get it. You’re wondering, out of all the 70 hundred million billion wifes out there, how can I make such a bold claim? Cause this happened:
I was having a bad day. Full disclouse (assuming you don’t want to read the link provided), the shituation was completely my fault. I even realized it at the time. Regardless, a shit storm’s a shit storm and as much as I’d like to be a stoic master, I am not. I went full Hulk over some minuscule entitlement that was being denied me: Popeyes was out of chicken, for the moment, and I was going to have to wait for a full 15 minutes to get a freshly made batch.
Mar-Vell’s cat is a crossover from Lovecraft’s universe of Elder Gods. In fact, Goose is an anagram of Cthulhu, which is a subtle nod to my inability to spell and ignorance of what, exactly, an anagram is.
I’m doing my girlfriend doggy style when I notice the flashing red lights of my autistic twin brother’s velcro shoes from under the closet door. Wait a minute. I don’t have an autistic twin brother. And even if I did, I live alone.
My name is Butch. I’m a bad bunny. I’m Aeryk’s bad bunny.
(what’s a bad bunny?)
You know Calvin & Hobbes, right? Specifically, Hobbes, the toy tiger/imaginary friend? Well, that’s me, except I’m not an imaginary friend, though Aeryk does have a cute little stuffed doll of me (see the featured image). It doesn’t come to life like Hobbes does for Calvin. Rather, Aeryk sees his doll as a physical manifestation of me. He thinks of it as a kind of totem in which he can capture my essence after some hocus pocus ritual, or some such derivative Stephen King crap.