In Her Defense

This is a nice, pretty, soothing image, isn't it? I bet it doesn't make you want to kill me even a little bit. Even if you're my wife.

All right, I don't want anyone to think that what I posted last time should be taken as any kind of criticism of my sweetie. Whatever she does is fine with me, even if it isn't. But it is, and I don't care and it pisses me off anyway, and sometimes I know a tiny little bit about love.

And just to prove it, here's a murder defense.

I think the missus might need it. If you follow me on Facebook (and what kind of fool wouldn't?), you've probably noticed a thread in which she very strongly implies -- comes dangerously close to stating flat-out -- that the only reasons she hasn't killed me are that I make her laugh, and I cook for her.

I believe there is a third factor at work, but that's not important. What is important is that if the missus wises up and croaks me, somebody needs to make sure that her attorney finds out about this blog, and about this post in particular.

Okay, Mr./Ms. Attny. Make sure the jury knows that as of this date, the missus and I have had the following conversation, with minor variations, somewhere between seven and ten times. Please clarify that this sort of snottery is particularly loathsome when it comes from a loutish meatloaf the size and shape of an upended sofa who is watching Walking With Dinosaurs for the one-hundred and fifty millionth time:

The missus is on her way out the door.

The Oaf: Off to your not-a-cult?
The Missus: It's not a cult.
The Oaf: I understand. That's why I specified.
The Missus: Fuck you.

It is very important to note that written transcripts fail to give the full weight of this exchange. Regard it as an iceberg -- the visible portion is what is said, but the bulk of its offensiveness lies in the manner in which the word 'understand' is spoken.

Of course, that begs the question of how something like this could occur. How could one person step into the same joke so many times? Because the real secret to her lasting love for me is the mysterious third factor I referred to earlier: an extremely poor short-term memory.

That's right. I'm tolerated because, as Lovecraft wrote, the missus is mercifully unable to correlate the contents of her mind. Which is why I'm putting this here. Because if she winds up running me through the Vita Mix and pouring me down the drain, I won't be around to remind her why she did it.