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You want to call our dog “Dick”. You have my absolute support, as long as you’re the one telling him to come when we’re at a crowded dog park.

Only if we get a Newfoundland and I get to scream out “COME BIG DICK COME!  GOOD BOY!  WHAT A NICE BIG DICK YOU ARE!”

Don’t ever stop calling me “the most beautiful girl you’ve ever seen”. It may or may not be true, but even when we’re old and our private parts aren’t working anymore, I’ll never get tired of hearing that I turn your viagra on and that I’m your only gal. It’s one of the many reasons why I married you.

Don’t ever find Jesus and stop drinking.  Marrying you for the long haul means hoping you’re as awesome and as beautiful as my grandmother was her entire life.

No name calling during fights, unless the names are hilarious enough to distract us from the reason we’re fighting in the first place. Suggestions: Thundercunt or Cockmonger.

I think we’ve come full circle to Twinkletaint, you OvulationArcade (or for certain days of the month, OvulationArcadeFire).

“We” are not pregnant. “I” am pregnant. Saying that “we” are pregnant when I’m the one carrying and birthing the baby is sort of like me cooking you Mexican food and then claiming that “we” have gas.


I’ll “borrow” your phone and send all of “our” friends a photo of “our” food baby after “birthing”.

There’s no use pretending that neither of us have a history prior to our relationship. We both know that our sexual skills were built with years of slutty practice and morally questionable decisions.

So you get to wear your little black dress at our wedding and I get to wear a white Prada suit?  Also, while on the subject, try to find a garter with a flask holder.

If I die young, part of your postmortem husbandly duties are to go through all of my things and throw out the embarrassing shit before my mother gets to it.

Don’t women have porn buddies too?  Asymmetric encryption for your stash?

Sure, I’ll get rid of the embarrassing shit and leave your MacBook with a (non-dirty) Rainbow Brite desktop background and whatever NSYNC albums are floating around on BitTorrent.

If you die by suicide, I reserve the right to populate your iTunes with the entire Elliott Smith and Jeff Buckley catalogues and download a bunch of Seroquel XR pdfs.

I will always cry during the opening montage of Up.

I haven’t seen Up yet, so feel free to get it on Netflix one night and, yeah, there’s my shoulder and super comfy hoodie to wipe your tears on.

By the way, no making fun of me for getting a little misty-eyed when Doc gets shot in Back to the Future.

If we’re not having anyone over, my clothes are probably gonna be all over the floor. You’re more than welcome to join me.

At first I thought this was free licence to continue my adolescence and disuse of the laundry hamper, but now I get it.  DEAL.

If you’re going to wear sweats to the restaurant, I’m telling the hostess who seats us to bring you some crayons and a cartoon placemat.

Why do we live in Madison, Wisconsin in this hypothetical marriage of ours?

I don’t care how awesome your uncle Bart is, we’re not naming our kid anything that rhymes with “Fart.”

So that’s a no to naming our first-born “Chairman Meow”?

Let’s promise to make our own jokes and never rely on quoting an Apatow flick for conversational filler.

Sure thing, Twinkletaint.

We’re going to make a lot of parenting mistakes, let’s not make putting leashes on our children when we go to the mall one of them.

That’s why we get our kids iPhones as soon as possible and use the Find My iPhone feature liberally.  See?  There IS an app for that…shitty parenting.

Period sex: I know you don’t care, but these are Léron sheets. We’re laying down a beach towel.

I know you don’t care either, but I’m wearing a condom.  Nothing is more horrifying to a dude - even if just for a split second before remembering how it happened - than seeing his own penis covered in blood.

Your toenail situation: If you plan on letting it become as freakish as Howard Hughes, you should probably be as rich as him, because you’ll be putting me up in a swank hotel by myself until you get that goat-footed horror show seen to by a professional (and if necessary, a team).

The same applies for your fingernail situation, except substitute Howard Hughes with “New Jersey”.

The Lawn. It’s not gonna mow itself.

Excuse me while I go into the garage and fit DJ Roomba with sharp metal blades.

Yes, I know I’m a genius.

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