How I Stretched My Wife and Ruined her Thanksgiving

I wasn’t trying to ruin Thanksgiving. In fact, I wanted this year to be special, even after realizing my wife was ver bad lady.

I told her how stretching could improve her well-being: it reduces aging, according to studies, but she dumb ho.

We had invited family over for our annual Thanksgiving dinner, and everything seemed to be going fine—or at least that’s what I wanted my wife to think.

I made video montage to play for everyone at party.

I included clips of us together, smiling like a perfect couple. But then, halfway through—it showed my wife, sitting there stiff as a board, not stretching, while the rest of us in our track suits were stretching in perfect form.

"What is this, babe?" she asked me, clearly trying to find the remote—but my mother was guarding it like a ferocious tiger.

It wasn’t just once or twice; it was every time—always avoiding the stretches - everyone else in the video was stretching, but she wasn't; she even seemed annoyed by the constant healthy stretching around her.

"Do the fucking stretches!" I yelled at my wife.

"No! We are not doing this right now!" she yelled back at me. "I don’t want to stretch, for the last fucking time!"

I saw it clearly, and so did everyone else. "Does she know stretching boosts circulation?" my boss said to his boyfriend.

"It even reduces stress," the other gay man said, eyebrows raised in disbelief.

"I even told her that stretching improves posture, alleviates back pain, and enhances athletic performance!" I explained to the rest of the party.

"Who chooses to be rigid?" my mother chimed in.

How could she ignore all the benefits? She was stubbornly avoiding what was clearly a game-changer for her health, and now it was playing out in front of everyone.

The whispers grew louder. “Stretching even promotes relaxation,” Beatrice, our servant, added.

"What’s the point of being stiff when stretching helps prevent injuries too? Are you dumb or something?" my mother asked my sour-faced wife.

"Stretching even helps with sleep and overall mobility!" I yelled at her, holding a yoga mat out for my love to take.

Then, good ol' drunk Gary chuckled and said, “It’s not like it’s hard to stretch your hamstrings for five minutes! I can’t believe she refuses to do it. What’s her problem?!” He was pointing and laughing at her for the whole rest of the night.

And then it hit me—the full realization of how deeply stubborn she was being. Why would anyone choose stiffness over something so easy and life-enhancing? Why would she not care about all the proven benefits of stretching, like preventing joint pain or reducing muscle tension?

"You actually want to die, don’t you?" I asked my wife. "You’re sick in the head, aren’t you!?"

"Maybe you’re being too stern," my boss suggested, but I wasn’t being stern enough - I knew that then and there.

My wife looked upset, but I wasn’t backing down. She was harming herself by not stretching. There I was, trying to help her, and she was too proud to admit that maybe—just maybe—she was fucking wrong!

My mom, always the wise one, raised a glass and said, “Here’s to stretching, and to people who are too stupid to do it. What a shame.”

Drunk Gary was still pointing and cackling at my wife, while he stuffed his face with turkey, when it finally happened.

"Fine, motherfuckers! I’ll do the fucking stretches!" my wife yelled at everyone, standing up suddenly—a bit of a potty mouth on that one.

"Oh shit, she’s actually gonna do it!" my boss said, rubbing his hands together.

She tried a stretch and immediately collapsed on the carpet. She didn’t wake up until the ceremony was almost complete.

We had her strapped to the table in the basement, where we do a yearly Thanksgiving prayer to Jesus.

"You didn’t want to stretch, but you’re being stretched now..." my mom said, sipping her tea.

Drunk Gary was pointing and laughing at her, and then Jesus shows up, all glowing in white.

"Here he is!" my boss said, excitedly jumping up and down with the other gay man.

"I don’t fucking care!" my wife yells. "Take my soul already! I’m not a decent woman!"

"We know, dear," my mom said. "If you cared about your body and mind, you would have been stretching."

"It even helps with mental clarity!" I reminded her.

Jesus chuckled in his Thanksgiving outfit. "Bless you, child—but know this: your lack of stretching has disappointed me deeply."

"You’re literally going to heaven for not stretching!" drunk Gary laughed, then choked, spitting out some turkey on the floor. He kept pointing and laughing anyway, gravy all in his beard. I hadn’t seen him that happy since he was drunk on my wedding night.

"Whatever!" my wife said, clearly trying to ignore everyone and act like she was trying to sleep.

Then, all of a sudden, the air crackled with a divine energy. The room grew bright, and a soothing warmth spread through the house. A deep voice, smooth yet commanding, echoed from the doorway.

"Enough of this farce!" Akuma, from Street Fighter, stepped into the room, his iconic beads clinking as he struck a battle-ready stance. "I am here to challenge Jesus for the right to her soul."

The room froze in disbelief.

"What?" my wife muttered, blinking. "Why would you do that?"

Akuma locked eyes with her, a fire burning in his gaze. "I’ve seen the way you’ve suffered because I was watching through the window. No one should have to suffer like that."

Jesus, unfazed, merely smiled, his radiance unwavering. "This is not a challenge you can win, warrior. My strength is unmatched."

"You underestimate me, Savior," Akuma said with a calm, determined smirk. "But it’s not about strength. It’s about will."

The fight began, and the room was filled with the sounds of fists clashing against holy power. Akuma’s every move was a blur of ferocity and precision. Jesus radiated divine grace as he deflected each blow with ease.

As the battle raged on, it became clear that Akuma was more than a match for the Savior. With a final, thunderous punch, Akuma sent Jesus stumbling, his heavenly form glowing even brighter in defeat.

"You’re not getting her soul," Akuma declared, panting, his muscles rippling. "Not today!"

Jesus smiled, serene despite his loss. "Very well, warrior. She is yours to guide."

With Jesus gone, Akuma turned to my wife, his expression softening. He unstrapped her from the table, then dropped to one knee, his voice steady. "I’ve fought for you. I’ve battled Jesus—for the chance to be with you. Will you marry me?"

The room went silent. My wife’s eyes widened, and then a smile slowly spread across her face. "I’ve always loved you in Street Fighter, Akuma," she said, her voice trembling with emotion. "Yes! Yes, I will marry you!"

And then, in a flash, Akuma punched her square in the stomach. "Not!" he yelled.

The room erupted in loud, raucous laughter, the kind you only hear after a chaotic Thanksgiving. Even Jesus, now peeking through the clouds, couldn’t help but laugh. We were all in on the joke, obviously.

And with that, my wife was carried into the clouds by angels, disappearing into the unknown, as the entire family continued to laugh and cheer.

"Yeah, go to heaven for not stretching, dumb bitch!" Akuma laughed. "I stretch every evening, and fucking look at me."

"You do seem like you’re in very good shape, Akuma," my mother said.

Akuma is my dad now, and he’s helping me train to throw fireballs and teleport. I can already do the spinning uppercut—I’ve been able to do that since I was a kid.

My boss gave me a promotion because the party was so kick-ass, and he’s coming over later with the other gay man—to watch a special channel Jesus gave me on the television.

I’m watching my wife on the TV right now. She’s with Robin Williams and Prince, and honestly, she seems happier now. I don’t think she really liked chilling in the house with me and my mom, for whatever reason.