I walked into our bedroom and my wife is lying on the bed looking 10 months pregnant (she was due in October). The following conversation ensued. Keep in mind I had already tried all the usual assurances. i.e. you are not fat; You are pregnant and beautiful. etc. etc.
Wife: I feel like a beached whale
Me: Honey, there is no way you are a beached whale.
[Turning to leave] Me: {under my breath} There is no beach.
Wife leaps from bed and proceeds to chase me through the very tiny apartment trying to smack the ever loving crap out of me.
Theorem of the century: You cannot be miserable and feeling sorry for yourself and angry enough to murder your spouse at the same time.
