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.”