Ever notice how humans wrap their primitive dominance struggles in concerns about safety? Oh, the delicious irony of a marriage teetering on the precipice of disaster over... rice water ratios. What we have here, dear voyeurs of moral theater, is not merely a culinary disagreement, but an existential battle played out through the medium of undercooked poultry.
The Will-to-Power Through Protein
Our protagonist—a self-appointed guardian of gastronomic propriety—reveals himself not as the food safety champion he purports to be, but as a man desperately clinging to control in a universe that offers none. For eight years—eight years!—he has silently chewed crunchy rice, each grain a tiny monument to his simmering resentment. One might wonder, in the grand Nietzschean tradition, whether it is the raw chicken he fears or the raw acknowledgment of his own powerlessness.
The wife, our alleged culinary criminal, exhibits the classic bad faith Sartre would recognize immediately. Her insistence that "her mother never showed her how" is the existential equivalent of claiming the dog ate her homework. The biological imperative to not poison one's social group is apparently superseded by her will to assert dominance through dangerous dishes. How fascinating that she clings to cooking for others despite her apparent incompetence—a performance of domesticity while subconsciously rejecting its actual demands.
The Social Performance of Mastication
Did you ever notice how dinner guests vote with their absence? The dwindling social circle represents society's silent judgment, the collective turning away from potential food poisoning that no amount of politeness can disguise. Yet our couple persists in their ritual, she cooking dangerously, he hovering anxiously—a macabre dance of matrimonial discord seasoned with E. coli.
The true joke here—and it's a killer, much like the wife's chicken—is that both parties engage in elaborate self-deception. He pretends his concern is purely altruistic while feeding his need to be right; she pretends incompetence while asserting dominance through culinary rebellion. It's enough to make one laugh at the absurdity of two primates potentially ending their genetic lineage over rice-to-water ratios.
The Existential Horror of Undercooked Carbohydrates
What is crunchy rice but a metaphor for life itself? Hard, resistant, never quite yielding to our desires for softness and comfort. Our protagonist swallows both his pride and inadequately hydrated grains, a dual consumption of indignities that perfectly encapsulates the human condition.
When he finally snaps—that glorious moment when the veneer of civilization cracks—we see the monster beneath, the creature that has been watching the pink chicken and thinking not "this is unsafe" but "this is my chance to establish dominance." The Joker would appreciate the punchline: eight years of seething rage culminating in an outburst over poultry that was underdone for approximately eight minutes.
The Biochemical Ballet of Salmonella
The true cosmic joke is that despite all our pretensions to civilization, despite our moral posturing and relationship "compromises," we remain biological entities susceptible to microscopic organisms that care nothing for our marital disputes. Salmonella laughs at your relationship issues; E. coli mocks your passive-aggressive communication style.
Our protagonist fears she will "kill someone one day" with her cooking—a concern that might be valid if it weren't so obviously wrapped in the cloak of control. The existential dread of living with someone who might accidentally commit manslaughter through meatloaf transforms a domestic disagreement into a moral crusade. How convenient for him.
The Age-Old Question: Raw Meat or Raw Deal?
At 29 and 28, these two specimens have crafted a relationship where culinary incompetence has become the battleground for deeper issues. She, refusing to improve a basic survival skill; he, refusing to simply take over cooking completely or invest in a food thermometer—both choosing instead to maintain this absurdist status quo.
What would happen, I wonder, if they acknowledged the bullshit? If they admitted that the pink chicken is merely a symbolic manifestation of their power struggle? Perhaps the real raw meat in this relationship is the uncooked truth they refuse to digest.
The wife's claim that her mother never taught her cooking is particularly delicious—as if YouTube, cookbooks, and the entirety of human knowledge hasn't been accessible during her adult life. This is not ignorance; this is choice—a choice to remain dangerously incompetent in a domain where she insists on performing.
Food Safety: The Last Refuge of the Domestically Desperate
The most hilarious aspect of this moral theater is how our protagonist has convinced himself that his motivation is safety and consideration for guests, when it so obviously veils a desire to assert his superior knowledge and methodology. His concern for friends' wellbeing would be touching if it weren't so transparently self-serving—a convenient moral high ground from which to launch missiles at his partner's abilities.
Perhaps there's something darkly comedic about a couple who might end their union not over infidelity or financial ruin, but over the proper cooking time of pasta. In the grand cosmic scheme, as we hurtle through space on our insignificant rock, two beings argue about water absorption in rice while galaxies collide indifferently.
Conclusion: The Punchline to the Cosmic Joke
In this particular corner of the internet's moral coliseum, we have witnessed not a simple question of culinary competence, but a performance of two humans engaging in an elaborate dance of dominance disguised as domestic concern. He is not merely annoyed at undercooked food; he is threatened by her refusal to submit to his superior knowledge. She is not merely a poor cook; she is actively asserting her autonomy through deliberate culinary rebellion.
The joke, as always, is on both of them—and by extension, all of us—as they squander their brief existence on this cosmic speck arguing about chicken doneness while the universe continues its inexorable expansion toward heat death. The raw chicken is simply the medium through which they express the fundamental human condition: desperately seeking control in an uncontrollable existence.
As the Joker might say: "Why so serious about poultry? Let's put a thermometer on that bird!"
THE DUMBED-DOWN VERSION (FOR HUMANS WITH UNDERCOOKED BRAINS):
Guy mad at wife for cooking bad. Wife keeps making dangerous raw food. Guy scared she'll poison someone. Wife says "mommy never taught me" like she's 5 not 28. Guy finally snapped over pink chicken. Both idiots hiding real issues behind food fights. He wants control, she wants rebellion. Both too chicken to admit it (pun intended, hahahaha). Neither realizes death comes for us all, whether by salmonella or cosmic indifference. Humans are hilarious meat puppets pretending food safety is their biggest problem!
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