Its a rewrite of the original ‘My husband is a human gas chamber‘ story that has been gender swapped and rewritten using presumably AI.

My wife was left alone for 3 weeks and I wish she’d just cheated instead.

Three weeks ago, I left for a work trip to Germany. My wife didn’t want to come. “I’ll hang back, water the plants, binge some Netflix,” she said. She’s 39. I thought, “Okay, she’s a grown adult. She’ll be fine.”

She was not fine.

Day 2, she tries to make sourdough from scratch using a YouTube video and what she thought was yeast but turned out to be Epsom salt. The result: a rock-hard bread grenade that cracked our marble counter. She named it “Crumbzilla” and displayed it like a trophy.

Then, she decided to go “all raw vegan” for some reason and ordered 19 pounds of produce from a sketchy organic site. Half of it arrived moldy. The other half, she juiced. Exclusively. For a week. Just juice. No solids. She got so dizzy she mistook the laundry hamper for the fridge and put all our frozen meals in it. They’ve since liquefied.

To survive, she pivoted to eating Pop-Tarts and spoonfuls of peanut butter. Her justification: “Balance.”

Meanwhile, she stopped wearing actual clothes. Just bathrobes. The same one, every day. By week two it was 70% robe, 30% soup stains. The dog refused to cuddle her.

Last night, I land, exhausted, and I’m greeted by a living room that smells like fermented ginger and regret. She runs to hug me—robe flapping open, holding a jar of pickles in one hand and a half-knitted scarf in the other. Apparently, she took up knitting to “relax her stomach.”

This morning, I wake up to her whispering “I think I’m a kombucha now” and burping in her sleep. The dog has moved his bed into the bathroom and won’t make eye contact with either of us.

I grabbed my keys and said I was going out for coffee. The dog followed. He needed air. I needed therapy.

So here I am at a café with a silent, traumatized schnauzer, drinking espresso like it’s holy water. The barista asked if I wanted oat milk. I said no, because my trauma already comes in liquid form.

Hope your morning’s less... fermented.

EDIT: To those raising eyebrows in the comments—hey, fair enough. Humor’s subjective. It’s a story. No kombucha was harmed, no souls were actually fermented, and yes, the dog is emotionally recovering with the help of peanut butter and a weighted blanket. The relationship is fine. The only thing that truly suffered was the fish’s dignity.

This isn’t a manifesto. It’s satire. If you made it all the way to the part about vegan hotdog shakes and still thought this was a cry for help instead of a comedy-horror spiral, then I truly admire your commitment to missing the point.

To everyone else who laughed, side-eyed their own bathrobe, and gave their pets a reassuring pat—thank you. You're the reason the fish hasn’t completely given up. Yet.