The tornado wrecked your
house, you suffered a mild concussion and three broken ribs, the dog is missing, and you’re on the phone with your hysterically worried mom. “S’all good, you know, mom, s'all good. We’re all alive, praise God, that’s what counts.”
You come home to find your wife fellating your best
friend, a
relationship you suspected but didn’t want to confront your beloved about for fear she would get mad and divorce you. You were always a wimp. “S’all good, s’all good,” you say as you tiptoe back out of the bedroom. “No worries. See you later, hon.”