4 Times Entitled Husbands Crossed the Line – And the Epic Lessons Their Wives Taught Them!
4 Outrageous Actions of Entitled Husbands and the Epic Lessons Their Wives Taught Them
Wives are there to remind husbands who’s actually in control when they behave like they own the world! These husbands discovered the hard way that “happy wife, happy life” isn’t just a proverb; it’s survival! From couch crises to lingerie smackdowns!
Welcome to the Marriage Mishaps Hall of Fame, where the inflated egos of entitled men burst quicker than balloons from the dollar store! Our courageous spouses deliver justice with a dash of sarcasm, transforming home tragedies into hilarious comedies. These stories demonstrate that there’s a woman rolling her eyes at last week behind every outstanding man. Settle in for a delightful viewing of spouses discovering that karma is a package of gifts wrapped in old clothes! 🤣🤣🤣
First Tale: “Sorry Honey, Can’t Pick You Up… My Ego’s In The Way!”
All I wanted was to see my husband Jake’s face at the airport after enduring a demanding week-long conference in Singapore, where I had to contend with jet lag, incessant PowerPoint presentations, and the spiciest street cuisine on the planet.
After six years of marriage, this was our longest period of time apart.
I contacted him as soon as my plane had landed in Chicago, and I had butterflies in my stomach. “Landed! Terminal 3. I am so excited to see you, honeybun! ❤️.”
I wished I had stayed in Singapore after hearing his response: “Baby! I apologize. Accounting student Katie needed assistance moving her furniture. “Raincheck? 😅”
Katie. Naturally. The sweetheart of the office who, it seems, could not function without my husband’s biceps. The same Katie who seemed to be having a meltdown every time I left town.
Well, this game might be played by two. 😈😈😈
I tried not to sound tired and hurt when I spoke to Jake’s best buddy, Chris, over the phone. “Hey, we need an airport rescue. Bringing supper as a token of gratitude!”
Chris, oh my dependable soul, made no hesitations. “I’m headed that way. Yes, Terminal 3?”
I complained to Chris on the way home about Jake’s habit of saving the day for women in need, especially those with the last name of Katie. My jet-lagged brain had started to create a strategy by the time we arrived at my house.
I took my fury out on the kitchen by making all of Jake’s favorite dishes, including my three-hour-long lasagna, homemade garlic bread, and tiramisu that would make an Italian grandmother cry.
The dining area, with its finest china, candles, and roses, like a set from a romantic movie.
Jake arrived to find Chris seated at our table under the candlelight, receiving a glass of Jake’s special occasion wine.
“What’s… going on?” Jake stammered and regarded us as though he were watching a tennis match.
I smiled like a really brilliant flight attendant. “I just wanted to thank Chris for always being there. In contrast to some people’s furniture relocation service.
I bragged about Chris’s dependability all during supper. “You know, when I called, Chris answered right away. Isn’t it amazing to have friends that are so trustworthy?” I refilled Chris’s wine glass with purpose. “Someone who prioritizes you over random couch emergencies?”
Jake squirmed uncomfortably in his seat, leaving his lasagna nearly untouched. “Look, Katie really needed—”
“And I truly needed my hubby,” I tucked in politely. “Good thing I had a backup!”
As the evening came to a conclusion, Chris was trying not to chuckle into his tiramisu while Jake appeared like he had swallowed a lemon. 😆
The next time Katie needed assistance, Jake inexplicably became afraid of furniture. It’s funny how that functions.
And me? “Thank You Dinners” are a new custom I began for friends who support me when my spouse can’t.
All of a sudden, Jake was the most trustworthy man in Chicago. 😌 Sometimes, marriage counseling is best served with a side of petty and pasta.
Story 2: 50 Shades of Granny: An Intimate Instruction on Selflessness
My husband Rob had been saving every penny for his dream automobile, a classic Mustang, for the last six months.
This meant that while he was browsing through car listings on Instagram with the fervor of a teenager, I had been wearing the same reasonable cotton underpants from the three-pack sale at Target. I had no idea that he had transformed my workaday underwear into material for social media.
One evening, I was innocently plugging in his phone to charge when I stumbled onto a group chat that set my blood boiling quicker than a boiling kettle. 😡😡😡
“Hey guyz!!” Rob captioned a picture of my underpants, which was there in all its cotton splendor. See wifey’s grannies underwear! 🩲 living the life of a grandmother. With close-ups of my sensible beige briefs and the elastic waistbands that, yep, reached my navel, of course. Send aid! 😂. But comfort is king, after all.
“Get this man’s wife some Victoria’s Secret! 😆” and “Did you marry your grandma? 🤣🤣” were among the many amusing emojis and nuggets his friends had commented with.
Even better, a kind person proposed creating a GoFundMe page for attractive underwear. How considerate. 😒
Rather than sobbing into my tight panties, I summoned the hero – his mother, Patricia.
I showed her the chat the next morning over coffee. I anticipated anger, if not outrage. What I saw in her eye was a glint that would unnerve a supervillain.
“Oh honey,” she exclaimed, carefully whisking her coffee, “let’s show him what grannies can do.”
When Rob got home the following day, I was wearing a luxury dress that had cost exactly one down payment on a car. Sitting on our couch, his mother had the smile of a Cheshire cat who had just won the lottery.
“Honey!” I spun around in my new attire. “I went shopping with your mom. How do I appear?”
Rob’s eyes widened. “Whoa! You appear quite attractive! Is it Versace, is that?
“Stop worrying about the price! I made use of your Mustang money. I should be a wealthy grandmother at the very least if I’m living the granny life, don’t you think?
I snatched his phone, snapped a selfie in my new attire, and forwarded it to his group chat before he could reply: “This granny’s got style and her hubby’s credit card. 💅 PS: “Hello, from the retirement home!”
Rob’s face began to change color faster than a sunset when the notifications began to come in. Suddenly, his pals were really taken aback by “Granny’s fashion sense.” I was asked whether I knew of a single grandmother he could go out with.
Patricia got up and adjusted her high-end purse, which she also got from the Mustang fund 😌. “Keep in mind, my love, that a woman is like a good wine—she only becomes better with age. and more costly.” She gave her shell-shocked kid a wink. “Now, who’s up for some lingerie shopping?”
Since then, Rob’s car money has become the “Happy Wife Fund.” And those old underwear? I had them framed. 😗 Sometimes the best retaliation arrives in packaging made of cotton blends.
Story 3: The Day My Man’s Flu Virus Made Him a Boot Camp Cadet for My Mother-in-Law
Imagine this: I’m not dying of man-cold flu; I’m dying of real flu. We are discussing fever, chills, and everything in between. I look like something the cat pulled in, spat, and then dragged back in, covered head to toe in blankets.
My spouse Pete is throwing a Super Bowl party in our bedroom in the interim. Because, it seems, our 55-inch TV was “essential for the full game experience” with his mates, and my illness was impeding his lifestyle.
I heard them laughing, yelling, and splattering beer and buffalo wing sauce all over our 1000-thread-count sheets through my feverish daze.
Pete had the gall to offer, “Baby, could you grab us some more ice while you’re up?” as I staggered in for more cold medicine. And perhaps those freezer-stored jalapeño poppers?”
With a tissue pressed to my face, I gazed at him, questioning whether I had married someone with the emotional intelligence of a potato or if this was just a fever-induced hallucination.
It’s time to pull out all the stops. I called Pete’s mother, Eleanor, also known as “The Sergeant.”
I had only ever used this card once in our five years of marriage, and that was when Pete attempted to convert our garage into a makeshift brewery. Pete’s pride was destroyed for a month by Eleanor’s response, even if the ensuing explosion only destroyed one wall.
An hour subsequently, Eleanor arrived akin to a whirlwind donning appropriate footwear. “PETER SON OF WILSON!”
The men stopped mid-cheering. There was one that I swear tried to hide under a pizza box. Another, six feet two inches tall and sporting a neon shirt, tried to disappear inside our drapes.
Eleanor treated our home like a military base for the following forty-eight hours. In addition to deep cleaning every surface and sanitizing the restroom, Pete and his friends learnt everything there was to know about caring for Egyptian cotton.
One guy received instruction on how to fold fitted sheets properly for twenty minutes. I believe he shed tears.
Eleanor treated me to homemade soup and entertained me with humiliating tales from Pete’s early years while I recuperated like a queen. Did you know that for a while he believed himself to be a cat? 😘 The pictures were the chef’s kiss!
When I recovered, our home was immaculate, and Pete’s reaction to his mother’s ringtone was practically Pavlovian. His buddies now scatter at the suggestion of my visitation while I’m ill, like scared birds.
The finest aspect? Now, Pete turns into Florence Nightingale whenever I sniffle. It’s funny how selective caretaking syndrome can be cured by the threat of your mother-in-law. 😎
Story 4: How I Got Started as My Husband’s Worst Nightmare Band Lead Singer
Approaching my thirtyth birthday, I’d dropped more clues than a skydiver without a parachute.
“Can’t believe I’m turning 30 next month!” was my casual breakfast comment. “You know, 30 is a big milestone…” was my lunch statement. “So, any special plans for, oh, I don’t know, May 15th?” was my dinner comment.
Mike, my spouse, had shown delight about something special he had promised, but it was only the glare of concert tickets from his browsing history. 😤
Warning: He thought nothing of leaving me for a concert with his coworker Emma and leaving me a message saying, “Happy 30th! Emma and I are seeing The Thunderbolts tonight. She knows I adore them and had an extra ticket. Tomorrow, we’ll rejoice! 🎸”
His favorite band, The Thunderbolts, is also suddenly Emma’s. What a funny coincidence. Almost as hilarious as Emma turning into a devoted rock lover after believing Bon Jovi was a kind of pasta just a month ago. 😏
Rather of sobbing into my birthday cake (which I had to order myself, by the way 🙄), I called my friend Zoe who just so happened to know the manager of the venue. After two backstage passes and one sob story, we were in.
I did my best damsel-in-distress act and went up to Ryan, the lead vocalist. On my 30th birthday, my spouse is present… along with another woman. Assist a female?”
Not only did Ryan, bless his rock star heart, ask me to come onstage, but he also told the audience that it was my birthday and dedicated their biggest song to me.
Feeling like a tone deaf rock star, I grabbed the microphone and sang, “This one’s for my husband Mike and his ‘friend’ Emma.” I appreciate the birthday memories you provided.
The audience erupted in hysterics. Mike appeared as though he wanted his pricey band tee to swallow him whole. Emma became fascinated by her shoes all of a sudden.
I made sure to bring up Mike’s promise of a special birthday party during the guitar solo, but it seems that his idea of special included showing up late to his own wife’s birthday. The crowd jeered. A voice exclaimed, “Dump him, queen!”
Afterwards, Mike stumbled and said, “I’m so sorry, I had no idea…”
I interrupted him. Yes, but didn’t I make it noteworthy? To me, a happy birthday.”
Mike now observes my birthday as if it were a public holiday. He begins months in advance with his preparations, treating the date with the same respect one would give to the disarming of a bomb.
And Emma? She asserts that she exclusively listens to classical music after inexplicably developing an aversion to performance halls.
The ideal form of retaliation? I now receive annual birthday cards from the Thunderbolts. Ryan signs it, saying, “To our favorite visiting vocalist. Continue to upset the balance! 🎸”
The Final Laugh! 🤣🤣🤣
Honestly, marriage is just a sophisticated version of the game “Who Can Be The Most Petty?” And we’re winning, ladies! We’ve demonstrated that retaliation is best enjoyed with a side of sarcasm and a heaping serving of “I told you so,” whether we’re transforming airport snubs into dinner theater or granny panties into victory flags.
To all the husbands out there, keep in mind this the next time you consider putting your friends before your significant other: your wife may quickly convert your “guys night” into a TED Talk about your most embarrassing experiences, so remember to always put the needs of the team first. 😈
