My wife is petrified of spiders. They are the bane of her existence, and the mere sight of them can paralyze her with terror. I am, in the house, the great spider hunter-killer. It is my husbandly duty to squish the spiders for her.

Once, there was one on the ceiling of our bedroom, and when I tried to smoosh it for her, it scampered quicker than I could compensate, and I only managed to knock it on to the bed. Oh, how she shrieked, both at the spider itself and at my grand failure. It was my fault that there was now an arachnid on the bed. I caught the bugger quick-like, but the damage had been done. For hours afterwards, my wife would look over at me with a venomous cocktail of hate, loathing and disappointment in her eyes, filling me with the shame of my deficiency.

I have oft wondered what she did before she and I met. There must have been spiders in her old apartment, I think to myself, but I have no idea how she managed to deal with them.

Jon’s got some shiny leggings on in this comic.

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