I was participating in my usual beer enhanced sports worship like a every other good and unthinking citizen of the Imperial Empire when due to shift change, you became our server. Truth is I just do it to fit in. Clearly I worship myself.
I was the handsome one eating hot wings like a wood chipper and I made the quite hilarious and original joke about boobies and hot wings. Man, I kill me.
You seemed preoccupied with some medical/political issue and asked if we heard about it. We being slightly less aggressive than threatened Congo Chimps simply mocked you until you left in a huff. If we could throw our own feces and still be allowed to stay, we would.
I however could tell by the way you rolled your eyes and adjusted your wedding ring, that you would be in my bed by sundown. Why wouldn’t you be?
Just as the military-industrial complex needs wars, the marriage-industrial complex needs adulterous couples to believe they require help from professionals. The only way to make more money would be to just fucking print it. A cash cow.
Much like your local mega-church and the hysteria over Armageddon, gay rights and presidents who are black. Follow the money ye saints of the most high dolla-dolla bill (often called mammon; not that religious people read their own scripts...). But I digress.
The angst on your face however spoke not to the company of morons you had to presently endure but with the moron of morons back home. Probably playing X-box this second or masturbating to facebook pics of your best friend or both.
The only reason to ask a group of mentally retarded, adult male, (barely) homo sapiens, who are ingesting beer and hot wings like tic-tacs, what they think about a political issue is because they as a test group resemble the real missing link you want to argue with.
It’s a subtle leap to then figure that while you are slaving away, probably attending school AND keeping up the chores at home (laundry, dishes, birthday cards, groceries and date nights), your lovable Orangutan husband is...well, not.
And if that’s not enough he then has to disagree with you politically. Not like he even reads or watches the news and remotely even attempts to know what he’s talking about. He just pontificates like a sudden, unsolicited fart. In fact his farts have sounded better than most of his arguments, if you could call them that.
Boy, if he didn’t have that long, curved to the right, penis and those adorable baby blues...you’d have left him 3 months ago. Your friends often ask you why. If we all only knew him like you do...
Enter the N. (Slow motion, of course with theme music...)
It’s really all over except the shouting. And shouting there will be. The last key is planting the idea, or better put the inception; your idea that maybe curved in other directions might bring different, more pleasing...outcomes.
Your ancient, hunter-gather genes kick on and start spinning like a Higgs Boson and soon the idea of ‘not the guy at homes’ semen entering you from multiple directions and positions seems a good a way as any at solving your problems. Freud called it penis envy. Your preacher calls it sin and I call it tuesday night.
Besides, you now can entertain that portion of the bookstore, thats been barred to you thus far. The marriage/just had an affair help section. You wanted to be naughty. Now your guilt can be naughty too. Go ahead, give it a try...the economy depends upon it.
N.
(The real missed connection is that this affair could actually be the beginning of a real, working-loving marriage that lasts despite the infidelity. But everyone will get hung up on the sex and it will be the end. I know...I have the book)
No comments:
Post a Comment