Third Wheel

Any number of fun things come in threes—tricycles, bar stools, strikes. When the happy couple invites you along, embrace it. You’re an adult. (If not, put this book down immediately and tell mommy to feed you fucking donuts.) You can entertain yourself, can’t you? If the other wheels begin playing kissy face, look away.

I realize being perpetually single makes me that guy. I’m the one couples offer the pity invitation.

“Aw, poor Philsy. He looks lonely. Let’s invite him along.”

“I don’t know.”

“Come on, honey. He’s bar trained. If nothing else, he could be the voice of reason after we get plastered. Plus, he has Uber. A third voice is necessary for a majority vote. No more hung juries deciding if Jane is high or stupid.”

“Last time we brought him along he told the wait staff it was my birthday, then he ate my custard.”

“Pretty Please? His misery will be a constant reminder of why we should never break up.”

“Good point.”

Although I may be miserable and pathetic, I am keenly aware that vagina-keepers find that repulsive. So, I’m sure to keep that to myself (and my prose). In public, I find chilling my upper lip with booze is the remedy—it brings out the best in me.

Now, in the odd occasion that I’m the fifth, seventh, or ninth wheel, things can get sloppy. This is where I begin to toss passive-aggressive sarcasm grenades into the mix. It’s not that my misery desires company; I simply enjoy mental conflict.

“Scott, you’re right, Tom’s wife does have an epic hiney. Bet she does squats. I’d like to join her cross shit team. Ha, ha. Get it?”

“What? I never said …”

“Hey, quick survey. Raise your hand if you’ve ever accidentally shot yourself in the face with your orgasm.”


“Nobody? Oh, OK. On purpose. Who has done it on purpose? Better yet, who has a picture?”


“Really? Just me? Christ. This isn’t working out how I planned. Hm. There’s no Jenga. I know. Let’s play would-you-rather. Would you rather have sex in a Tijuana Porta Potty, or watch Alice masturbate with a cucumber?”


“Tough one, I know. Well, except for Alice. We all know what she would prefer. After all, she is vegetarian, right?”

Perhaps unicycle is best for miscreants like me.

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About the author

Author of humorous essays about relationships and lifestyles.