Sending me over the edge

Sometimes I think my husband is driving me crazy. Let me rephrase that: he IS driving me crazy. On purpose. Granted, it's a short drive, but that's what makes it all the more evil.
Why would you WANT to put someone over the edge? Unless you are evil. If you think I'm making this up, because you all know him and you're all like he-would-never-he-is-the-nicest-guy-ever-you-are-so-overreacting, here is proof.
A random, everyday conversation between us (this happened in the car, which is even more disturbing - we could get in an accident, all die, and he would never get the chance to apologize. In that case, I hope he survives, so he has to live with the fact that he killed me. Not that the conversation could cause the accident, but that is not the point):
"I think we should get some chickens." (Bob)
"I think you are insane." (Me)
*An evil grin* "Co'mon, wouldn't you like fresh eggs everyday?" (Bob)
"I'll take my eggs boughten and pasturized, thank you." (Me)
"Are you sure? The kids could collect the eggs, you wouldn't even have to go in the coop." (Bob)
(Do I even need more proof at this point? This only shows how pre-meditated the evilness is. He has thought this through!)
"Stop it. Just stop it! No!" (Me)
"Nice, fresh eggs. All you can eat. Yum." (Bob)
There. Rubbing my nose in my guilt for not boycotting eggs for the rest of my life. Like it's my fault that the sight of chickens makes me nauseous and break into a sweat, like my childhood trauma makes me an egg-eating hypocrite. Well, maybe I am, but again, that's not the point here.
"I think we should." He pauses to glance in the rearview mirror at the kids. "What do you think, kids? Should we get our own chickens?"
Has he no shame? Amid a chorus of "Yay!"s from the backseat, I am sickened at the mere thought of chickens running around my yard. He is relentless. By the time we get home I am hyperventilating. This is domestic abuse, plain and simple. Now, instead of doing something fun with the kids or catching up on housework, I must spend my evening devising a plan of revenge. So you see? It's his fault I am a bad mother and housewife, too.
I hope he's happy.
For those of you who don't know my chicken trauma story, I would explain, but I am too upset right now. Maybe I will post more after I call my therapist.