There are a lot of things I’m tired of. Like the prohibition against drinking before noon. Or waking up with dog hair in my mouth and an empty bag of cheetos stuffed in my left house slipper (thanks Ambien). But what really gets my goat are sitcoms with hot wives and flabby, slovenly husbands who, in addition to being physically repulsive, are also annoying, rude, classless, lazy and poor earners. Thanks to that little paradigm, men are busy eating whole slices of American cheese directly out of their wrappers and licking the mayonnaise off burger buns like they’re Oreos while I’m spending 3 hours a week sweating my ass off at the yoga studio and casually nibbling on a carrot stick while passing in and out of consciousness in front an episode of Glee. And you wonder why we all prefer vampires.

Cheese grater belly by Joseph Barbaccia, who I just remembered I posted about yesterday but GO FUCK YOURSELF. I need a Butterfinger.