Fec things we men, especially the married ones, are short for this world once the impending global apocalypse grips us:

Women are our hope. Fortunately, that includes me ’cause, by and
large, I do what women tell me and don’t expect that circumstance to
change.

While Mr. Wonderful begins his new life as a day
trader and fritters away the rest of the family resources, tell him
it’s time to paint the living room and buy a big bag of potatoes. Cover
the room to be painted in plastic. Prepare the most wonderful potato dish you can imagine.  Put your heart into it; you’ll be glad later.

Serve Mr. Wonderful all the beer he can drink as he
spends the day painting. That night, make him a great dinner featuring
those potatoes. Shortly thereafter, Mr. Wonderful will be looking for a place to sit.  Make sure a recliner awaits.  Put it right in front of the TV.

Once Mr. Wonderful is asleep, place a towel over
his head and bash in his brains with a baseball bat. You’ve fantasized
about it for years. Sister, I’m gonna make this work for you.

I’m not saying do it next week. Give the Great Unpleasantness a
chance to kick in. In no time, all municipal functions will cease and
there will be no one to care.

There’s much, much more disturbing stuff where that came from.  Now excuse me while I go throw away all the beer and potatoes which will live my side of the pantry and fridge bare.