What kinda slop..? Hank pushed aside the small plastic tray, wasn't hardly any meat...Hank continued

grumbling to himself.  Was it too much to expect a decent meal?  He reached for the local paper, which sat atop ... stuff.  One corner brushed against ... something rolled onto the floor, and nudged against his boot.  Whatever it was, he gave it a firm nudge, sending it across the linoleum floor.  The object, some sort of giftshop trinket, caught on a crack, changed directions and came to a rest over by the frig.  This was getting old, what he needed, bigtime, was a change of scenery.  He glanced over the headlines, then turned the page, an editorial had caught his attention.  

Woah, that dude's gonna cause a stirr, ged himself oft, if he ain't careful.  An incident at a nearby church, whether torched off from outside, or an inside job, or maybe both, Hank didn't know - he wasn't into Bible stuff, but whatever Scripture/s "West" had pounded from the pulpit ... well, evidently, hadn't gone over so well.  Wasn't like the first time West honked off some people.  Anyway, long story short, his listeners rallied around him, and that definitly was, again, fanning dumpster smolderings.   Hank turned the page, but his mind gravitated upon certain related ... TRUTHS, per which the editorial had briefed.   Just common sense, what's wrong with people ... meh, like the sandwich - comes in a pretty wrapper, all puff'n fluff. 

The setting november sun, cast a faded beam upon the window overlooking the kitchen sink.  The waning light revealed a shadowy mess of cobwebs, bordering the tired-shaded half-curtain panel - the panel hanging on the right wasn't quite the same blotchy shade.  Not that he expected a scene out of SouthLiving, but comeon, this was pushing things a bit.  

Jenny's sub - if that's what you want to call it - was still in the bag.  Some moments earlier, she had come in from work, plopped the ... puah... "supper" on the table, then - without saying, so much as "hello, or drop freaking dead" headed into another room.  

This was getting really old.  There needed to be a change.   He could not go on like this, any longer, and neither could she.  Hank pushed aside the paper, pushed back his chair, and walked into the livingroom, where his wife was all comfy upon the sofa, with tablet in hand.  "Jen," he picked up a jacket and some other article, which had been draped over an arm of his recliner, and dropped them both onto a nearby end table.  "We need to talk."  Jenny didn't look up, only rolled her eyes - sending Hank's fist into a clench.  If she was a dude...