Would You Rather…?

Last night, while slurping on corn chowder, the husband turns to me and says,

Husband: Would you rather...

We've played this game before. I'm not a fan of it because it forces disturbing images into my head that can only be scrubbed away with bleach and phosphoric acid.

Husband (cont.): ...have sex with Harvey Keitel or Danny Devito?

I look up from my Entertainment Weekly, slightly annoyed because I’m in the middle of reading about Kim Kardashian's ginormous ass and how it almost swallowed her sister Khloe.

Me (sighing): I don't want to play.

Husband: Come on. Indulge me.

Me: Neither.

Husband: You have to pick one. Them's the rules.

Me: Brad Pitt.

Husband: Not an option. Keitel or Devito?

Me: No. They're both gross.

Husband: Do you love me?

Me: Yes.

Husband: If you love me, you'll play. If you don't play, that means you don't love me.

Blatant love manipulation. It’s what he does best.

Harvey Keitel or Danny Devito? Nothing personal against either of them, I'm sure they're both adequately nice people, just aesthetically, they don't tingle the nether regions. (But it's okay if they tingle yours.) It comes down to: Danny Devito is gnome-ish. Harvey Keitel is less gnome-ish.

Me: Fine. Harvey Keitel.

Would you tap Danny?

Pick me!

Husband: Ew, gross. Okay. Would you rather...

And so the games goes, the choices getting progressively more absurd. Howard Stern or Hugh Hefner? Corey Haim or Corey Feldman? Gallagher or Carrot Top?

Occasionally, he veers into sapphic territory.

Husband: Would you rather have sex with Cloris Leachman or Betty White?

Come on, that's not even a hard choice. Betty White, hands down!