Thursday, January 11, 2007

A Cautionary Tale

My sweet,
Say you're a guy who stalks wild, fierce animals for a living (or rather, points pasty midwesterners in a general direction with some guns and a few pointers). Say you're a guy who just got married and has a devoted, gentle, nurturing wife at home who has your most crucial concerns at heart. Say she asks one day, "Hey, when you gut those wild beasts out, don't your hands get slippery?" and you say "Duh," and she says, "Doesn't your wedding band kind of, you know, slide around?" and you say "Dude, no way. It's totally and completely secure."

Should I finish or has the punch line made itself obvious? Say you're a guy who's gutting a ginormous elk when you realize, "Crap! My wife! She was right! This proves that she is, in fact, always right! Also, shit! Where the hell is the ring?." So you do what any completely screwed husband does and you dig around in the guts, yielding no results. You do it again. Nothing. You head back to camp and you're feeling (can I guess here?) like a giant asshole or else like you're a pretty funny(screwed) guy with a helluva campfire story.

But you're stand-up, so you go out the next day and you do, indeed, sort through the remaining elk parts that haven't been eaten by coyotes only to realize that to recover the ring would mean sorting through coyote crap for miles and miles. At that point, you call off the search and your tail between your legs, you admit that you were wrong and she was right.

The moral: When it comes to matters of bloody internal organs and the hazards therein, wives probably know best (what with all those periods and mysterious woman organs).

Confidential to the ring-loser: The next time I see you there had better be a ring on that finger. And perhaps a new piece of jewelry for your wife. (I've got your back, woman).

Because I know you haven't heard that one,
Your hopped up on dark chocolate (with orange infusion) pea.

p.s. much love to your blustery city from mine

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