A woman was stating bad things about her husband. I don’t know if she had it in some specific list, it could have been alphabetical, it could have been numerical, hell, it could have been by acts she figures will help her beat her justifiable homicide rap. The thing is, just like when men talk too much, I’d stopped listening once I got a handle on the situation.
“Husband doesn’t listen. Check. Husband doesn’t follow directions. Check. Husband is just a slovenly, little-dicked, good-for-nothing who’d be living under the streets if it weren’t for her continually keeping him in check. Check.”
Then my brain goes into sleep mode. I still look attentive, but I’m not. I have a screen saver playing in the back of my eyes of scenes from Slap Shot. Playing softly in my ears is Jonathan Richman’s ‘Action Packed’ (if you don’t get a rocking happy on during that song turn in your air, you’re dead). Just like a computers sleep mode, I can be roused easily but, at this moment, I am out.
“That’s why I like talking to you, you listen.”
I mean, “That’s what I’m here for.”
Sometimes there’s a momentary freeze when coming out of sleep mode.
I know she wants me to say something. To side with her. A little affirmation, a chuck on the chin and a hearty send off. Then why do they come to me? I really don’t get it. It’s not as if I’m hiding my almost universal disdain for man and womankind. It’s not as if you haven’t heard me tune the dial to vile if you’ve spent almost a minimal amount of time with me. Hell, you don’t even have to meet me. Spend fifteen minutes here if you’re on the fence. Read ten bits and you’ll likely have one of two reactions.
1) “I’d drink with this guy.”
2) “I’m calling Chris Hansen. This guy must be stopped before he offends again!”
I guess some people have a head full of dumb and a heart filled with stomp me.
I say that because this woman was standing in front of me like a tick infested baby bird with it’s cackling maw opened awaiting nourishment. Silly people, I can’t cook.
“It’s never going to change. You’re always going to feel this way. You’ve been with him all these years and haven’t seen an iota of growth. That must mean the problem lies with you.”
Can you believe it? She didn’t take kindly to that assessment.
“Seriously, you may have a mental illness. You’re doing the same thing, getting the same result yet expecting a different result. Albert Einstein defined that as insanity.”
If you think she didn’t like that last statement I’m sure you know how that one was received.
“Okay, listen, I know you’re not ‘clinically’ insane,” how’s that for a good hedge on my part? “But you have to realize how men work. It’s a limited machine.”
“You can say that again.”
“But I won’t because I want to finish. The average man says two thousand words a day so logic would dictate, even doubled, he can only comprehend four thousand. That still less than the seven thousand words the average woman says in a day. So after getting ready for work, working, getting home from work his comprehension is at the breaking point. He’s full.”
“And you’re full of shit.”
“Okay then, it comes back to you’re insane.”
“Or he’s just an asshole.”
“Asshole is an opinion but insanity can be medically proven.”
I can see she’s exasperated but also thinking. I may only use a couple thousand words a day but I put them to good use.
“What if what you say has some validity?” Ha! This is where I always get them. “What if I change and instead of just talking in the morning I tell him to do one thing? Just one thing. Do you think that would work?”
“Nope. By the time it’s time to do it he’s forgotten all about it.”
“You’re an asshole.”
“Finally! You’ve hit on something that is universally accepted.”