As a husband, one of my many duties in life is to annoy, irritate, or otherwise provoke my wife's ire for my own amusement whenever possible.  At the time this story takes place, we had been married for seven years, so I'd already had plenty of time to master my craft.  Surprisingly enough, despite my constant efforts to get on her nerves (and I have only gotten better at it), we are still married.  I'm telling you, I hit the marital jackpot with her, and on my first try, too.

   Anyway, the year was 2012.  As a practical joke, I decided to pretend I'd forgotten our anniversary.  Yes, yes, I know this is a dangerous game but what can I say?  I like to live on the edge!  So, I spent the entire day acting as though it were just another day and it didn't take but a few hours from the time we woke up for me to see that my apparent gross oversight had her ready to go into full thermonuclear meltdown at any moment.  Nevertheless, I kept up my charade, intent on getting her to mention my ignorance before springing my trap, which happened to be a weekend in the Caracalla Honeymoon Suite at the Gastonian (very expensive, way-out-of-our-league B&B) in Savannah, GA.  I went all out on this, going so far as to convince her own mother to play along AND to babysit for us over the weekend.

   As the day wore on, my wife's face continued to slowly twist and contort, becoming an outward representation of the rage beast coming unchained within.  I kept waiting, sitting at my computer and pretending to play video games when she would come into the living room, while in reality I was double-checking all the arrangements.  Her favorite champagne, to be left on the nightstand chilled and ready?  Check.  Strawberries still warm from their dip in the chocolate fountain?  Check.  Matching robes and commemorative champagne flutes?  Check.  Romantic anniversary card containing an original poem by yours truly, printed in much nicer handwriting?  Check.  Assorted "adult" goodies from Amazon scheduled for delivery directly to the suite?  Check.  Everything was in order.

  Then came time to initiate bedtime protocols for our tiny humans.  As usual, stress and tensions were high as my wife and I engaged the enemy on the field of battle.  Our diminutive adversaries refused to rely on conventional combat strategies and opted instead to utilize guerilla warfare tactics, frequently sacrificing the freedom of one so the other three could beat a hasty retreat, only to flank us and free the captive as soon as we gave pursuit.  It was a harrowing conflict, but after roughly two hours, we won the day.  Suffice it to say that, at this point, I had unfortunately allowed my wife's internal reactor core to reach critical mass.  As I made my way through the kitchen, planning to pull up our reservation on the computer and call her in to spring my trap at last, I risked a glance her way.  It was difficult to see her through the cloud of radioactive smog rolling out of her ears.

   Well, shit.

   My plan had worked too well.  She managed eye contact mid-glance and I knew then that I was within the hour of my death.  This is when most men would switch to desperate ass-kissing mode and apologize profusely for they know not what.  Me?  I decided to put the last nail in my own coffin.  I met her white-hot stare, smiled, leaned in slowly until our faces were nearly touching...then abruptly licked her forehead from one side to the other and ran away giggling like a psychotic schoolgirl.  My wife hates, I repeat, HATES when I do this.  Hates, as in develops the most creative and invasive homicidal ideations.  So, I know I have to move quickly now if I am to save my own skin or whatever other body parts she may have designs against at this point.  Like a flash I hurdle over the couch and leap the remaining eight or so feet into my desk chair.  I hear the bellow of pure, unadulterated fury erupt from the kitchen as my wife prepares to charge.  My fingers fly across the keyboard and there is a machine gun of mouse clicks as I frantically pull up the Gastonian reservation email and change the desktop background to a huge "Happy Anniversary" banner.  As she rounds the couch, brandishing a soup ladle like a gothic flanged mace, I spin my chair to face her and throw my hands toward the screen like Vanna White proudly displaying a solved puzzle.  "Happy anniversary, ya crotchety bat, now please don't murder me with a ladle!"

   I still had to dive out of the chair to dodge a blow to the head.  I watched my wife's face as she read what was on the screen.  Conflicting emotional responses warred for dominance as she processed the full extent of my grand deception.  This manifested physically as a series of mostly incoherent syllables churning and tumbling deep in her throat as though she were simultaneously channeling both Yosemite Sam and the Tasmanian Devil of Looney Tunes fame.  Eventually, they began rolling out of her mouth, quietly at first but increasing in volume parallel to her level of realization.  I got to my feet, watching and waiting, eagerly anticipating an outcome that would spare my life and limbs.  Then it happened.  Full radiation containment failure.  "Y-...  Fu-...  Go-...  Stu-... Piece of-... DUMBASS TIPPLENURKEYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY!!!"

   A flurry of ineffectual slap-punches rained down upon my head and shoulders as I doubled over in raucous, unchecked laughter, my hearty guffaws between desperate gasps for breath prompting ever more wild flailing of her adorably tiny, harmless fists.  After nearly twenty straight minutes of this, I had nearly regained my composure, but my body betrayed me of its own accord, pointing at her as I heard my own mouth say, "You... You called me tipplenurkey!"  Once again, I was helpless to stop the laughter as she launched into another round of hilarious domestic battery which only served to exacerbate the problem, especially since this time it was accompanied by the longest, most innovative string of colorful curses and vile epithets you can possibly imagine.

   So, yeah, that's how I got my username.  To this day, I still can't mention the event without laughing myself to tears.  As to where exactly she came up with "tipplenurkey," the world may never know.  She claims even she doesn't know.