My wife is a radio personality and a sucker for getting things in bulk.
Usually those two details don't need to be packed into the same sentence.
But, before we met, one of her early radio gigs was at an Oldies station.
When the format changed to an Urban one, she stayed on, even though she didn't know as much about the genre.
One day on-air, she did a backsell on a song by Tupac Shakur and pronounced his name, "TOO pack."
It was an honest mistake.
However, her biggest mistake was telling me that story.
Because since that day, whenever she purchases, or finds, or robs someone of, or only exercises a third of her abs to show me, a "2-PACK" of anything, I'm compelled by the Sacred Laws of Husbandhood to sternly remind her that it's actually pronounced, "TOO pahk."
When she closes her eyes, looks down, and deeply sighs at me- because she never sees it coming and that's how she copes with a fleeting desire to violently end my life- I try to comfort her with a quick and husbandly, "Hey... Keep Ya Head Up."
But the humor doesn't land because she still doesn't know any Tupac songs.
I think everything's fine because she hasn't asked me "too PAHK" my bags, yet.
(SFX: Bah-dump-bump, tshhhh)
And before you even ask... yes.
If she ever mentions Tupac- said correctly- I proudly inform her that it's most definitely pronounced, "TOO pack."
Because, like my marriage vows to her, I have an eternal commitment to the bit, as well.
And because my wife gets everything in bulk.
Even my dumbass jokes.