Nobody respects the poor peanut. He used to be the man, the star, the dapper danny who danced across a million commercials on a million screens. He used to a nutritious staple and full of protein. Now you’d spit on him in front of his children.

“Gladys, hand me that can of mixed nuts.”

“Yes, dear. Here you go, dear.”

“Gladys, why in the name of Frank Conniff did you buy this garbage?!! It’s got peanuts!”

“Yes, dear, but you’re not allergic. It’s less than fifty percent peanuts, look right there on the label.”

“I think I’m having a stroke. Did you just say I’m not allergic? Of course I’m not allergic! Do you think I’m a Communist or something? Don’t talk to me like I’m only three!”

“Then what’s wrong with peanuts?”

“What’s wrong? With peanuts? What’s wrong with cancer and teenage pregnancy? What’s wrong with wearing a cat on your head and walking naked through the senior center? Every single thing that could ever be wrong with anything in America is wrong with peanuts!”

“Dear, did you take your medicine?”

“No, I didn’t, because it’s got less than fifty percent peanuts! I want a divorce. I want you and your stupid peanuts out of the house. I want this house to have less than fifty percent of a marriage!”

“Yes, dear.”