Now, logic dictates that anyone who calls himself a successful husband must be doing something completely wrong. Especially when said hubster is blue. But don't let that keep you from reading on and treating yourself to the wonders, nay, secrets…. of my special brand of marital bliss.
Okay. I'm still in denial and I need a drink. I still believe I'm no one's husband. I just don't like the sound of it. I wake up on the couch all by myself and there's this little voice telling me, "Good morning RC, looking pretty messed up today." It's my own voice. And that's BEFORE I've bothered to take a look in the mirror. I'm sitting on my couch, consciously scratching my
ass head, wondering where I am and, worse, who I am. Where's
my horse? Oh, I'm at home. I know this for a fact for that ugly thing right
over there is my 1990's not-so-flatscreened television thingie, and judging
from the poor taste in books - Animal
Farm sitting right next to The Enormous Crocodile, The
Big Butt Book and a book on giraffes - it doesn't take a teacher to tell me it's my private
collection. Impressive bookcase, though. Hmmm. I scratch my ass head once more. I hear a
noise. I find myself staring at the ceiling the way Goofy himself would do on a
bright day (only more intelligent-looking-um-ly). Who's walking upstairs? Somebody's definitely walking
upstairs. Tip-toeing too. Who else is in my house? A burglar? Is it a burglar… a real burglar? And just as I'm about to really scratch my ass or
really get worried about getting raped by a six foot monkey, it dawns on me: that's
no six foot monkey. That's my wife. Dear Lord, I'm married.
My Mommy used to ask me, "RC, why in the world don't you want to get married when you're all grown up and smart like me?" I'd give her the look and start roll my eyes in utter disbelief, saying, "Momma, there's no woman on this planet that's gonna tell me what to do. 'You've got smelly feet! Go take a shower!' Well, maybe just you, Momma, but no one else. I'm an Independent Agent. I operate in isolation. Like Superman. You know that. Only I keep my undies where they belong." And she'd roll her eyes in turn and mumble something to sweet Jesus himself. I guess she'd found my flaw. So when she picked up the phone a couple of decades down the line and she heard the good news, I'm pretty sure she thought she'd misheard. Any stranger would have thought she was convinced I was pulling her leg on April Fools' Day. Now, no one gets to pull my Momma's leg and live to tell the story, not even me, and my Momma's not deaf like me nor is she a fool and it wasn't April Fools' Day, so I figure she must have thought (a) I'd lost my mind or (b) had just found it. All I know is she's been happy ever since.
Are you still waiting for me to tell you my secrets? Okay, here it comes. I sleep on the couch and pretend I'm not married. Come again? I sleep on my Sunpan Modern Bugatti Grain Leather Sofa and pretend I'm no one's husband. It works like a charm. Angie never gets to enjoy my special brand of hippo snoring and when I show her the finger that has no ring on it (yep, I show her the finger alright, and pardon my Spanish and I mean this in a good way), she tells me I'm not interested in her one way or another. I know, it sounds cruel, but to a blue guy it makes perfect sense: no snoring means she gets to sleep, and no ring means she doesn't feel compelled to trick herself into believing she's got me like so many women do, then stop shaving their armpits and suffocate the hell out of their husbands. Plus I don't like football, baseball or that European thing called soccer so she's happy, I'm dashingly handsome if half-blind at least two seasons a year and I give her all the space she needs. I love space so I pretend I'm the one giving it to her. Minor problem: my hump-happy caveman neighbor living right next door (as in his bedroom's right next to ours) keeps humping day and night making sounds in the process that would scare ole Bigfoot off the premises. She's not a fan of Mr. Caveman, you see, but she'd rather listen to him than to my delicate hippo snoring. Other than that, it's all good.
|It was a X-mas gift, I swear.|
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