Panic

I was gripped by a sudden realization today, an almost panic attack if you will. You see, it's well past noon, and I hadn't blogged yet. I had actually somewhat forgotten my just recently established blogging ritual. I don't know why I feel the urge to blog every single day . . . and multiple times at that. I guess I'm just a giver. Or maybe I'm just gay for blogging. Well, I'm not sure about that last sentence. I have not determined if the weblog has a masculine personae. I don't want to come to the conclusion that it has a female one, as the wife might get jealous about how much time I put into it. She might cut off my blogging priviledges at home. So far, the less I mention ridiculously embarrassing stuff that happens to her or involving her, the better.

So, yesterday, she was sitting on the porcelain throne we have and . . . haha! No, I'm kidding. She is a pristine being that has no need for defecating or urinating, and never ever ever passes gas. She is perfect, and if you (the reader) say anything about it, I will meet you in an open field for a duel. A gentleman's match where you can chose your weapons . . . flintlock pistols or dueling sabers. And we shall wear frilly shirts, tight pants that only go down to our calves and do a great job of accentuating our packages, and tube socks. Gotta have tube socks. I do this to defend my wife's honor, and so help me God, in that get up . . . I don't know what else I could do to achieve that goal.

Or, I could just have her deck you in the chin and lay you out. She comes from Irish descent, and I personally know she can punch hard. I can show you the bruises if you want. Sometimes, it's like I'm living a reverse Lifetime movie of the week existence. You've seen those made for television movies right? I really have no idea why women like to see other women get beat the shit up and tossed around only to, in the final 5 minutes, kill the abusive man. Does that final sequence make you women feel vindicated? And the poor acting . . . what's up with that?