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Your Most Ridiculous Breakup

Illustration for article titled Your Most Ridiculous Breakup
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You know what is not perceived to be funny? Breakups. You know what is often funny? Also breakups. In this week’s Pissing Contest, I want to hear about your most ridiculous breakups—what went south, and how did you let him know in a Cracker Barrel? Let’s get personal in the comments below.

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But first, let’s look at last week’s winners. Here are the most disastrous meals you’ve ever made:

The Ron Swanson of Westeros, WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK? You could’ve saved this for Spooky Stories, wow:

I wish (or rather, do not wish given the subject matter) that this was my story. Rather, this is the story about how I taught a co-worker an invaluable cooking lesson.

Co-worker comes to me on Tuesday, and mentions how she was out on Monday because she was really sick. I expressed my apologies and moved on. Later that day, my co-worker also mentioned that she had decided to teach herself how to cook over the weekend. But she wasn’t sure that she had succeeded, because as mentioned previously, she’d gotten really sick on Sunday and Monday.

What followed was an, shall we say, indelible exchange:

Me: “Hmm. Maybe you didn’t use the freshest ingredients. Did you check to see whether your eggs went bad?”

Her: “. . . Eggs go bad?”

Me: “Uh, okay, I think I’ve found your problem. How long did you have those eggs in your refrigerator?”

Her: “I dunno. A year, maybe?”

Me: “My God, how are you still alive?!”

Moonlitesongbird, you also win, mostly because I did not account for explosions:

We were having a friend over for dinner and I SLAVED over a coq au vin. I had my husband, friend, and squealing baby in a high chair all gathered around the table when I set the pan of rich chicken, gravy, and vegetables down on the table. The Pyrex exploded into a hundred tiny shards of glass. Logically, I’m sure it was some kind of temperature shock situation, but I think that the gods came to claim my coq au vin as a sacrifice. It was too good for this world.

While I was still in a state of shock and devastation from my loss, my friend, bless him, was checking that no hot gravy or broken glass got on the baby. It’s possible that my maternal instincts are somewhat lacking.

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IAMRU2, this is both quantity and quality:

Off the top if my head... Mr RU has:

- burnt a pot by trying to make pasta with no water (“I thought water was just for flavouring, like instant noodles!”);

- killed the microwave by melting chocolate for 20 minutes (“You stand there stirring at the stove for that long!”); and

- Burnt toast so badly I stayed with a friend overnight while he aired out the kitchen.

My dad:

- has made curry with sweet vanilla yoghurt (he actually ate it, I tried one mouthful and dry heaved);

- made quiche for about a month (it was actually nice quiche - unfortunately we were too complimentary so he madenit practically every second day for about a month until we begged him to stop. I still can’t eat it, and even the smell makes me feel sick); and

- remembered for the first time ever to preheat the oven for a roast, and set my mum’s nice Liberty oven mitts on fire.

My grandmother:

- almost killed me (She made hamburgers, intended to be barbequed by my grandpa - after leaving them on a bench for most of the afternoon, she then microwaved them almost cooked, left them on the bench for a few more hours, then gave them to my grandpa to finish on the BBQ. A doctor needed to be called that night.);

- made the oddest, sloppiest lasagna I’d ever seen (secret ingredient? A tin of mushroom soup...); and

- would take the pickles off her burger at MacDonalds, wrap them in a tissue, then bring them home to put in my grandpa’s sandwiches.

Benevolus, I physically felt this one:

Making hot salsa in a hot kitchen, went to wipe sweat from brow with a paper towel as I maneuvered over to put mitts on to pull a boiling water pot off oven.

Not realizing I had just grabbed a paper towel that my wife had used to hold and dice jalapenos and habenero peppers prior to me taking it and wiping sweat.

Not realizing I had missed a few beads that were lancing down my forehead and effectively nuclearized them with leftover pepper juice.

Not realizing that fate had it in twin trails spinning down faster as I leaned over and picked up said pot.

And so....sweat beads maced my eyes as they struck both at the same fucking time.

And so I dropped said pot in agony....and water splashed and scalded the literal shit out of my right foot..

And so the wife came to her husband screaming curses while holding his hands over his eyes and hopping around on one foot while holding the other.....then slipping on water and going ass over teakettle and putting his head into the drywall behind him.

But you know what really hurt....the wife demanding I explain to her what the fuck is going on while I try to wash my eyes out over and over while I howl....and then asking why I would be stupid enough to grab a pot and spill it on myself.

Yea honey, I thought the best thing for pepper juice in my eyes was to fling a pot of water on my FUCKING FOOT. 

And of course, I was the bad guy for yelling at her while in pain.

I buy salsa in jars now.

Bananabunny, lol:

My son came home from visiting his dad’s one weekend when he was in middle school, and shared the story about how he and his older stepsister had made French toast for everyone. His stepsister wasn’t wearing her glasses, and apparently grabbed what she thought was cinnamon and started liberally sprinkling it into the batter. It wasn’t cinnamon though, and for some reason neither of them noticed until they were serving their huge batch of French toast.

Cumin. It was cumin.

Wax nostalgic in the comments below.

Senior Writer, Jezebel. My debut book, LARGER THAN LIFE: A History of Boy Bands, is out now.

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I had been seeing Andrew (yes, that’s his real name) for about a year when mutual friends of ours announced their engagement. These friends were the first in both of their families to marry, so both families wanted to make the wedding A Very Big Deal. The adorable couple (henceforth known as AC) made all the plans, and the wedding was set for early August in Southern California (both the bride and groom came from the Los Angeles area and met in Chicago).

About a month before the wedding date, AC decided to take a long weekend at the groom’s father’s cabin in upstate NY to chill before the last month of intense wedding-related activities took up all their time. Andrew announced to me that AC had asked him to join them on their long weekend, and he was going to go. I found this very strange: after all, Andrew and I were an established couple, and we had spent lots of fun and friendly times with AC. The fact that they didn’t ask me to join Andrew in the long weekend felt like a big slight, but I thought that maybe they upstage NY cabin maybe didn’t have lots of room, or some other naive notion. Of course I later learn that of course, SC had asked Andrew to invite me in the weekend, and Andrew “forgot to ask me”.

Anyway, Andrew and AC go to the cabin and have a nice weekend. Andrew calls me late on Saturday night of that weekend, which I thought was weird, since Saturday night is the middle of the weekend. Andrew wanted to tell me about how he spent his time at the cabin, and he mentioned that the bride’s sister, Emma, came out to the cabin as well, so it was the four of them. You can imagine that I began to feel a bit uneasy at this point. So Andrew proceeds to tell me that after AC went to sleep, he and Emma started up talking. He says to me, “So I fell very attracted to Emma, and I felt like she might like me too, and I asked her if I could kiss her, and she said yes. We kissed for a while, and it was really great. Then I asked her to come to my room in the cabin, and she did, and laid down and kissed in the bed for a while and I asked her if I could take off off her shirt, and she said yes, and I started kissing her breasts, and after a while I asked her if I could go down in her, and she said yes, and it was great...”

You might imagine at this point that my head was about to explode, and you would be right. He still continued telling me, his girlfriend, about his sexual experience with another woman (and for clarity: this was an exclusive, monogamous relationship). At the point at which I couldn’t hear any more, I burst in, tearfully, with “WTF were you thinking?”, and he responded with, and I quote:

“I thought we had broken up.”

NOPE. No break-up conversation had occurred, nothing even remotely like that. Of course at the point I was done with Andrew, and he seemed a bit befuddled to my reaction (of course: in them his tiny walnut brain, WE HAD SPLIT UP). I was completely undone, and he was weirdly unaffected by this.

The wedding and all the hubbub were somewhat strained, but I managed to have a good time. Oh, and the AC? Andrew had said that they were really happy that he and Emma had hooked up. NOPE, part two. AC told me that they were mortified when they learned how Andrew had behaved, and told Emma that Andrew was very much part of a couple. This made Emma feel ver embarrassed, and she wanted nothing to do with Andrew at the wedding.

Epilogue: About two and a half years after this, Andrew called me out of the blue. Blah blah blah epiphanies, and he basically asked me if, since he had moved to Ann Arbor, if I wanted to be in a long distance romantic relationship with him. NOPE.