Sorry I’ve been out of touch. I had a hangnail. Actually, I did have a nasty case of stomach flu last week, but at least I got a lot of exercise getting up several times throughout the night to dry heave my soul into the toilet, where it belongs.
My wife has been in full-on harridan mode lately as well, an enervating phenomenon (I was going to write “development,” since it harmonizes better with “enervating,” but since she’s been in harridan mode off and on throughout our fifteen hellacious years together, it’s not exactly an accurate choice). I just don’t know how to appease her. Neither the Neville Chamberlain nor the Winston Churchill strategy seems to work.
Defeat is the answer!
I share this computer with her and the screen has gotten so gunky–probably from having been manhandled by her primary school students–that it’s hard for me to see what’s going on.
Anywho, before signing on I read a sad post on the blog onlypeaceandlove about Kayla Mueller, who I assume is the woman who was recently beheaded by ISIS, ISIL, IS, the Islamic State, or whatever it’s called. (Fellas, you seem to be having a branding issue. Pick a name and stick with it if you want to market your product of indiscriminate mayhem and ghoulish bloodshed. I used to live in a bloodshed when I was a little boy. My pappy taught me how to finger-paint political messages there. Sorry–I’m in a sick mood.)
I don’t know about you, but I can’t see the point in an organization going out of their way to deliberately execute not only innocent but likable, sympathetic, exemplary people (which means at least I’m safe) as a way to promote their cause (sorry to belie the “indiscriminate” factor mentioned in the previous paragraph). Why can’t they be like the Slim Reaper and just use Predator drones? The remote-controlled missile-firing aircraft is mightier than the sword–and more expensive (this message has been brought to you by McDonnell-Douglas Incorporated, and is also compliments of Raytheon and a big wet smooch from Lockheed-Martin, the most lovable and affectionate weapons-makers in the world today, our dear friends who are keeping the world safe for hypocrisy and extortion).
When I was a little boy, one of my favorite nursery rhymes came from a book my brother and I all but memorized (although I eventually went on to forgetize it) entitled The Best of Sick Jokes:
“I love life and life loves me. I’m as happy as can be. A happier man nowhere exists. I think I’ll go and slash my wrists.”
I just found the contrast between the can-do optimism of the smiling man in the cartoon that accompanied the rhyme and his casually dismissive twist of despair hilarious.
Little did I know at the time that the joke would become something in between a mantra and a self-fulfilling prophecy. Although I’ve never attempted to commit suicide in any concrete fashion (but hey, the night is still young), my choice of spouse was downright suicidal–not that I can say I dived right into the arrangement without considerable prodding–and the years we’ve endured together have not only ruined my health, but made me question the possibility of ever finding happiness–or even sanity–with anyone else.
(The enforced-happiness aspect of the rhyme I’ve discovered both by living in the U.S., where cheerfulness is mandatory, and by being a teacher of Korean students, many of whom seem to think the best way to answer a smile is with a scowl–or, more precisely, an inscrutable face of stone.)
I can’t pretend to understand the pain my wife personifies, but Murphy’s Law being what it is, I can safely predict that although I’m probably better suited to find a new mate after our marital nightmare ends, I’m so far gone I’ll be lucky to survive another ten years, which means I won’t be able to get front row seats for the apocalypse 😦
(That’s the first time I’ve ever used an emoticon, and probably the last as well. Under the circumstances, I couldn’t resist. Does anyone know if I need to put a period after it? Who can navigate the treacherous waters of emoticon-related punctuation?)
My wife, on the other hand, will be an old maid, untouchable as far as her misogynistic culture is concerned, but she’s made of sterner stuff than I am, so she’ll probably live to be about a thousand years old, chronic aches and pains notwithstanding, lonely and guilt-stricken, flagellating herself endlessly in the nickname of Christ (Little Jeezy?).
Posthumous revenge may not be as sweet as the kind you can live to enjoy, but at least it’s something.
Sorry to see Jon Stewart go, and right on the heels of Stephen Colbert. Who will be there to pick up the mantle of sacred satire?
By the way, I want to apologize for comparing myself in an earlier post to the heroic cartoonists who sacrificed their lives in the name of free expression working for Charlie Hebdo. I’ll try not to be so pretentious next time, not that it will be easy to contain my flatulent blue whale of an ego, illusory as a soap bubble though it is.
Have a good day and a nice weekend–and make sure to smile, but only if you feel like it. Remember, it’s hard to laugh your ass off and frown at the same time.
I’ll leave you with one last joke-let from that long-lost book of evil gems:
“Mommy, Mommy, Daddy just got hit by a car!”
“Don’t make me laugh, Gladys. You know my lips are chapped.”