Thinking about getting engaged this Christmas? Snap out of it.
I’m not anti-marriage–not even anti-gay-marriage or anti-pet-marriage. If you want to commit to something for the rest of your life, how about eating chocolate? Showering? Breathing? Unfortunately, you are blinded by momentary bliss. You won’t listen to me. You’ll stand at that Tiffany’s counter and order the $20,000 noose.
I’ve been married. I know. It wasn’t awful, but neither was that wide-collared nylon shirt I wore in the late 70s. So, why would I campaign against such? Because they don’t work. Sure, there will be a honeymoon phase with many an orgasm. Do you honestly think that will last until the days of parallel plots? It won’t. In between, you get to deal with all sorts of annoyances including things left where you don’t want them and the desire to penetrate or be penetrated by someone else.
We’re biologically programmed to desire variety. This fucks with us.
Try to think of something you have that you only want one of and will never want another. You can’t. What’s that you say? A penis? Oh, bullshit. I have one, and I can think of a few instances where a spare would come in handy. There are also times when I’d like a different one, which would inspire a phrase I’ve never heard: “You want me to put that massive thing where? Impossible.”
If your woman is pressuring you to take that step “or else,” agree, have sex with her, then leave. There are other women who will have sex with you without demanding Princess Cut Kryptonite. True, some of them will be older, less attractive, or married. Still, it’s like that mid-morning candy bar–it gets you past the urge to do something silly.
By this point, married readers are ticked. They’re similar to that friend who insists you try the latest DVD exercise series, invest in a penny stock, or test drive a Kia. Misery loves commiseration. If you are a happily married person, congratulations. I bet it won’t last. Don’t be angry. It’s a free country, and I can place my bets as I like. The odds are in my favor.
Sometimes I’m accused of being a bitter recluse who is destined to die in wrinkled clothing and be eaten by his cats. Right. You know what won’t cause my death? Stress from:
- Snoring bed-mates.
- Being caught masturbating.
- Toilet paper issues, including shortages, wrong-direction installation, and balled up wads of … “Fuck, I didn’t want to see that. Couldn’t you flush it?”
- Annoying offspring carrying none of my genetic wonderfulness.
- Credit card statement shock caused by line items regarding various salon procedures.
- Nosy in-laws.
- A bathroom counter overtaken by lotions.
- My being enlisted as the home’s chief technology officer who must give daily lessons on such complicated things as “How to Record a Program without Erasing All Previously Recorded Programs.”
- Having to say no to once-in-a-lifetime, legendary vagina, which just happened to throw itself at me because the fucking planets aligned or she thought I was a rich someone else.
Tell that overly-medicated pusher behind the counter you’re not interested. Leave immediately. Go buy some foot lotion, an electric blanket, or, if you’re feeling extra generous, a Coach bag.
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