Please Pass The Gravy

“Please pass the gravy, and good lord are those marbles or lumps in the mashed potatoes?”
Ray Burns, as usual, was not the least bit happy about his meal. For forty years Ray and Twila Burns had been married. Nightly for forty years Twila lovingly prepared Ray a delicious home made supper. For forty years Ray whined about supper.
“This roast is tougher than the skin on my heels, these beans taste like they were soaked in a tub of smelly socks, I’ve had better salad in an elementary school cafeteria!”
Ray continued without taking a breath. The truly amazing thing about Ray, the art of his rant, is the more he complains, the faster he consumes the dish he is so brazenly bashing. . If he really hates something, if he finds something truly disgusting, if the recipe occupying his plate bumps Ray to the edge of nausea he shovels it in like a farmer pitching hay.
“This tepid tar you call coffee tastes like ughhhh ughhhhhh aaa.”
Ray’s eyes began to seemingly bulge out of his head as the color of his skin made a progression from a light crimson to a very disturbing shade of blue. Dropping to his knees he fixed his distended eyes on the back of his wife who was just finishing frosting a lovely German Chocolate cake, a recipe she’d seen on Regis.. His hands flew to his throat and a made a wheezing sound that resembled that chuff created by the last few pitful pounds of air escaping from a bicycle tire.
Ray’s face hit the freshly mopped linoleum floor with a dense clunk. Twyla slowly spun on her heel with a chocolate encrusted spatula in her hand and announced “Yes Ray, they are marbles.”