The Provider

Although I quite like the idea of wearing a bowler hat and carrying an umbrella (even in the summer), I'm not sure if I want to be the head of my household. The idea of going to work everyday, and having to put food on the table, seems like a depressing prospect.

Perhaps if I worked somewhere exciting like a sex-toy factory or a zoo, it wouldn't be so bad. It's just that there would be a lot of pressure to be the main breadwinner.

I mean for a start, where do you win bread? That would have to be the shittiest raffle ever.

"Number 34!"
"Yes! That's me! I've won! What do I get? Cruise tickets? A nebuchadnezzar of champagne? A bean bag? - Is it a bean bag? Have I won a - "
"No. Not a bean bag. Even better than a bean bag. You've won... some bread!"

"Some bread."
"Yes, some bread."
"So not a bean bag."
"No."
"Is it fancy bread? Like a hamper of fresh baguettes and crusty roles? A bit of wine? Some brie?"
"No, it's just some bread. I think it's Mighty White."
"I didn't even think they made that anymore."

"We didn't say it was edible bread. But even though it's eighteen years old, even though the bag has been ripped and pecked at by birds, and even though the contents is now mostly liquid, it is still - technically - bread."

"Oh. That's really... - I won! Woo! Hoo. I'm a breadwinner."
"Now get the fuck out."

I suppose that's what happens when you have to provide for your family. You spend all your free moments travelling the country looking to win bread. Raffles, crazy pub bets, the Yeast Olympics. Are we allowed to buy bread? (they say) With our earnings? (they continue, the poor fools) Exchanging legal tender for a loaf, in a shop? (twats)

You have to be the bread winner.

You also have to put food on the table. The bread presumably. No, not in the bread-bin. The TABLE. I know it's not designed to store bread. But put it there anyway. On the table.

Matters are complicated further by the need to bring home the bacon. You don't need to win the bacon (that would be stupid). Just bring it home. Maybe on the way back from the raffle. You can buy the bacon, or steal it. Just bring it home. Don't leave it anywhere. Bring it home.

What are you doing?

I've brought the bacon home, like you asked!

Yes. Well done. But what are you doing with it now?

I'm putting it... in the fridge.

[*PUNCH*]

I'm going to say it again. You put the food... where?

*whimper*

I can't hear you. Where do you put the food?

*sob* on the - on the

On the where?

the... the table

Yes! You put the food on the FUCKING TABLE.

Can I - can I put it next to the bread?

What are you asking me for, it's your fucking house?

Oh Marjory, I don't know if our marriage is working out...

[*PUNCH*] [*STOMP*] [*CRACK*] [*DIALLING TONE*]

Hello, police? There's been a terrible accident.

***

Hmm, that took a dark turn. It's lucky that it's entirely fictional.

Entirely fictional.

Although I was asked to provide a fun potato-cooking entry (PUT THEM ON THE TABLE), I've got some old stand-up that deals with that very thing, so I'll crowbar it into a post when I get home.